2024年3月30日发(作者：win10无法连接共享打印机)

劳伦斯《鸟啼》英文原文及译文

The frost held for many weeks, until the birds were dying rapidly. Everywhere

in the fields and under the hedges lay the ragged remains of lapwings, starlings, t

hrushes, redwings, innumerable ragged, bloody cloaks of birds, whence the flesh

was eaten by invisible beasts of prey.

Then, quite suddenly, one morning, the change came. The wind went to the s

outh, came off the sea warm and soothing. In the afternoon there were little glea

ms of sunshine, and the doves began, without interval, slowly and awkwardly to c

oo. The doves were cooing, though with a laboured sound, as if they were still wi

nter-

stunned. Nevertheless, all the afternoon they continued their noise, in the mild air

, before the frost had thawed off the road. At evening the wind blew gently, still g

athering a bruising quality of frost from the hard earth. Then, in the yellow-

gleamy sunset, wild birds began to whistle faintly in the blackthorn thickets of the

stream-bottom.

It was startling and almost frightening, after the heavy silence of frost. How c

ould they sing at once, when the ground was thickly strewn with the torn carcasse

s of birds? Yet out of the evening came the uncertain, silvery sounds that made o

ne’s soul start alert, almost with fear. How could the little silver bugles sound th

e rally so swiftly, in the soft air, when the earth was yet bound? Yet the birds conti

nued their whistling, rather dimly and brokenly, but throwing the threads of silver,

germinating noise into the air.

It was almost a pain to realize, so swiftly, the new world. “Le monde est mort

. Vive le monde!” But the birds omitted even the first part of the announcement,

their cry was only a faint, blind, fecund “vive!”

There is another world. The winter is gone. There is a new world of spring. Th

e voice of the turtle is heard in the land. But the flesh shrinks from so sudden a tr

ansition. Surely the call is premature, while the clods are still frozen, and the grou

nd is littered with the remains of wings! Yet we have no choice. In the bottoms of

impenetrable blackthorn, each evening and morning now, out flickers a whistling

of birds.

Where does it come from, the song? After so long a cruelty, how can they ma

ke it up so quickly? But it bubbles through them, they are like little well-

heads, little fountain-

heads whence the spring trickles and bubbles forth. It is not of their own doing. I

n their throats the new life distils itself into sound. It is the rising of the silvery sap

of a new summer, gurgling itself forth.

All the time, whilst the earth lay choked and killed and winter-

mortified, the deep undersprings were quiet. They only wait for the ponderous en

cumbrance of the old order to give way, yield in the thaw, and there they are, a sil

ver realm at once. Under the surge of ruin, unmitigated winter, lies the silver pote

ntiality of all blossom. One day the black tide must spend itself and fade back. Th

en all-

suddenly appears the crocus, hovering triumphant in the year, and we know the o