To K. de M.
From Underwoods
Robert Louis Stevenson
A lover of the moorland bare,
And honest country winds, you were;
The silver-skimming rain you took;
And loved the floodings of the brook,
Dew, frost and mountains, fire and seas,
Tumultuary silences,
Winds that in darkness fifed a tune,
And the high-riding virgin moon.
荒れ地を愛する者は運ぶ
そして正真正銘の粗野な風、貴方は
銀色の通り雨を、貴方は誘い
谷川の湛水、
露、霜の降りた山々、赤く燃える海原、
規律のない静寂、
闇の中で一節を横笛で吹いたような風、
そして空高く浮かんでいる新しい月を愛した
And as the berry, pale and sharp,
Springs on some ditch's counterscarp
In our ungenial, native north --
You put your frosted wildings forth,
And on the heath, afar from man,
A strong and bitter virgin ran.
The berry ripened keeps the rude
And racy flavour of the wood.
And you that loved the empty plain
All redolent of wind and rain,
Around you still the curlew sings --
The freshness of the weather clings --
The maiden jewels of the rain
Sit in your dabbled locks again.
23:14 2016/02/02火曜日
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