VII
To a Gardener.
(From Underwoods)
Robert Louis Stevenson
Friend, in my mountain-side demesne
My plain-beholding, rosy, green
And linnet-haunted gardenground,
Let still the esculents abound.
Let first the onion flourish there,
Rose among roots, the maiden-fair,
Wine-scented and poetic soul
Of the capacious salad bowl.
Let thyme the mountaineer (to dress
The tinier birds) and wading cress,
The lover of the shallow brook,
From all my plots and borders look
Nor crisp and ruddy radish, nor
Pease-codes for the child's pinafore
Be lacking; nor of salad clan
The last and least that ever ran
About great nature's garden-beds.
Nor thence be missed the speary heads
Of artichoke; nor thence the bean
That gathered innocent and green
Outsavours the belauded pea.
友は、我が、山腹の領分に住む
我が、ごく普通に目にしている、赤らんだ、緑色の
庭の地面に出没した鶸（ひわ）
どうか食物がずっと豊富でありますように
These tend, I prithee; and for me．
Thy most long-suffering master, bring
In April, when the linnets sing
And the days lengthen more and more,
At sundown to the garden door.
And I, being provided thus.
Shall, with superb asparagus,
A book, a taper, and a cup
Of country wine, divinely sup.
La Solitude, Hyeres.
22:01 2016/01/23土曜日
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