La Belle Dame Sans Merci

La Belle Dame Sans Merci

          by John Keats

Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,
Alone and palely loitering;
The sedge is withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.

Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel's granary is full,
And the harvest's done.

I see a lilly on thy brow,
With anguish moist and fever dew;
And on thy cheek a fading rose
Fast withereth too.

I met a lady in the meads
Full beautiful, a faery's child;
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.

I set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long;
For sideways would she lean, and sing
A faery's song.

I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She looked at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan.

She found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wild, and manna dew;
And sure in language strange she said,
I love thee true.

She took me to her elfin grot,
And there she gazed and sighed deep,
And there I shut her wild sad eyes--
So kissed to sleep.

And there we slumbered on the moss,
And there I dreamed, ah woe betide,
The latest dream I ever dreamed
On the cold hill side.

I saw pale kings, and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
Who cried--"La belle Dame sans merci
Hath thee in thrall!"

I saw their starved lips in the gloam
With horrid warning gaped wide,
And I awoke, and found me here
On the cold hill side.

And this is why I sojourn here
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.

无情的妖女

 查良铮 译

骑士啊，是什么苦恼你
独自沮丧地游荡？
湖中的芦苇已经枯了，
也没有鸟儿歌唱！

骑士啊，是什么苦恼你，
这般憔悴和悲伤？
松鼠的小巢贮满食物，
庄稼也都进了谷仓。

你的额角白似百合
垂挂着热病的露珠，
你的面颊像是玫瑰，
正在很快地凋枯。——

我在草坪上遇见了
一个妖女，美似天仙
她轻捷、长发，而眼里
野性的光芒闪闪。

我给她编织过花冠、
芬芳的腰带和手镯，
她柔声地轻轻太息，
仿佛是真心爱我。

我带她骑在骏马上．
她把脸儿侧对着我．
我整日什么都不顾，
只听她的妖女之歌。

她给采来美味的草根、
野蜜、甘露和仙果，
她用了一篇奇异的话，
说她是真心爱我。

她带我到了她的山洞，
又是落泪．又是悲叹，
我在那儿四次吻着
她野性的、野性的眼。

我被她迷得睡着了，
啊，做了个惊心的噩梦
我看见国王和王子
也在那妖女的洞中。

还有无数的骑士，
都苍白得像是骷髅；
他们叫道：无情的妖女
已把你作了俘囚！

在幽暗里，他们的瘪嘴
大张着，预告着灾祸；
我一觉醒来，看见自己
躺在这冰冷的山坡。

因此，我就留在这儿，
独自沮丧地游荡；
虽然湖中的芦苇已枯
也没有鸟儿歌唱。

John Keats 简介

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