Preface to Lyrical Ballads(by William Wordsworth)

Preface to Lyrical Ballads(by William Wordsworth)
I. Read the following words selected from Preface to Lyrical Ballads by William Wordsworth in1800 and pay special attention to highlighted ones.
It was published, as an experiment, which, I hoped, might be of some use to ascertain, how far, by fitting to metrical arrangement a
selection of the real language of men in a state of vivid sensation,
that sort of pleasure and that quantity of pleasure may be imparted, which a Poet may rationally endeavour to impart.
The principal object, then, proposed in these Poems was to choose incidents and situations from common life, and to relate or describe them, throughout, as far as was possible in a selection of language really used by men, and, at the same time, to throw over them a certain colouring of imagination, whereby ordinary things should be presented to the mind in an unusual aspect; and, further, and above all, to make these incidents and situations interesting by tracing in them, truly though not ostentatiously, the primary laws of our nature: chiefly, as far as regards the manner in which we associate ideas in a state of excitement. Humble and rustic life was generally chosen, because, in
that condition, the essential passions of the heart find a better soil in which they can attain their maturity, are less under restraint, and speak a plainer and more emphatic language; The language, too, of these men has been adopted。

because such men hourly communicate with
the best objects from which the best part of language is originally derived; and because, from their rank in society and the sameness and narrow circle of their intercourse, being less under the influence of social vanity, they convey their feelings and notions in simple and unelaborated expressions. Accordingly, such a language, arising out of repeated experience and regular feelings, is a more permanent, and a far more philosophical language, than that which is frequently substituted
for it by Poets, who think that they are conferring honour upon themselves and their art, in proportion as they separate themselves from the sympathies of men, and indulge in arbitrary and capricious habits of expression, in order to furnish food for fickle tastes, and fickle appetites, of their own creation.
For all good poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: and though this be true, Poems to which any value can be attached were never produced on any variety of subjects but by a man who, being possessed of more than usual organic sensibility, had also thought long and deeply. For our continued influxes of feeling are modified and directed by our thoughts, which are indeed the representatives of all
our past feelings; and, as by contemplating the relation of these
general representatives to each other, we discover what is really important to men,
What is a Poet? to whom does he address himself? and what language
is to be expected from him?—He is a man speaking to men: a man, it is true, endowed with more lively sensibility, more enthusiasm and
tenderness, who has a greater knowledge of human nature, and a more comprehensive soul, than are supposed to be common among mankind; a man pleased with his own passions and volitions, and who rejoices more than other men in the spirit of life that is in him; delighting to contemplate similar volitions and passions as manifested in the goings-on of the Universe, and habitually impelled to create them where he does not find them.
Poetry is the image of man and nature.。

The Poet writes under one restriction only, namely, the
necessity of giving immediate pleasure to a human Being possessed of that information which may be expected from him, not as a lawyer, a physician, a mariner, an astronomer, or a natural philosopher, but as a Man.
Nor let this necessity of producing immediate pleasure be considered as a degradation of the
Poet’s art. It is far otherwise. It is an acknowledgement of the beauty of the universe, an
acknowledgement the more sincere, because not formal, but indirect; it is a task light and easy to him who looks at the world in the spirit of love: further, it is a homage paid to the native and naked dignity of man, to the grand elementary principle of pleasure, by which he knows, and feels, and lives, and moves.
In spite of difference of soil and climate, of language and manners, of laws and customs: in spite of things silently gone out of mind, and
things violently destroyed; the Poet binds together by passion and knowledge the vast empire of human society, as it is spread over the whole earth, and ove r all time. The objects of the Poet’s thoughts are everywhere; though the eyes and senses of man are, it is true, his favourite guides, yet he will follow wheresoever he can find an atmosphere of sensation in which to move his wings. Poetry is the first and last of all knowledge—it is as
immortal as the heart of man. If the labours of Men of science
should ever create any material revolution, direct or indirect, in our condition, and in the impressions which we habitually receive, the Poet will sleep then no more than at present; he will be ready to follow the steps of the Man of science, not only in those general indirect effects, but he will be at his side, carrying sensation into the midst of the objects of the science itself.
I have said that poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquillity: the emotion is contemplated till, by a species of reaction, the tranquillity gradually disappears, and an emotion, kindred to that which was before the subject of contemplation, is gradually produced, and does itself actually exist in the mind.
II. Study two poems by John Keats and Walt Whitman and their Chinese versions.
Ode to a Nightingale
by John Keats
1.
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness
pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had
drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had
sunk:
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
But being too happy in thine happiness,—
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the
trees,
In some melodious plot
Of beechen green, and shadows
numberless,
Singest of summer in full-throated ease.
2.
O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth, Tasting of Flora and the country green, Dance, and Provencal song, and sunburnt mirth! O for a beaker full of the warm South,
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
And purple-stained mouth;
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, And with thee fade away into the forest dim: 3.
Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the leaves hast never known, The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan; Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs, Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin,
and dies;
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs,
Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.
4.
Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
Though the dull brain perplexes and retards: Already with thee! tender is the night,
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her
throne,
Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays;
But here there is no light,
Save what from heaven is with the breezes
blown
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.
5.
I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But, in embalmed darkness, guess each
sweet
Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves;
And mid-May's eldest child,
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.
6.
Darkling I listen; and, for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death, Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
In such an ecstasy!
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in
vain—
To thy high requiem become a sod.
7.
Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
No hungry generations tread thee down; The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown: Perhaps the self-same song
that found a
path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick
for home,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
The same that oft-times hath
Charm'd magic casements, opening on the
foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.
8.
Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
To toil me back from thee to my sole self! Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf. Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
Past the near meadows, over the still
stream,
Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep
In the next valley-glades:
Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
Fled is that music:—Do I wake or sleep?
夜莺颂
1
我的心在痛，困盹和麻木
刺进了感官，有如饮过毒鸩，
又像是刚刚把鸦片吞服，
于是向着列斯忘川下沉:
并不是我嫉妒你的好运，
而是你的快乐使我太欢欣——
因为在林间嘹亮的天地里，
你呵，轻翅的仙灵。

你躲进山毛榉的葱绿和阴影，
放开了歌喉，歌唱着夏季。

2
唉，要是有一口酒～那冷藏
在地下多年的清醇饮料，一尝就令人想起绿色之邦，想起花神，恋歌，阳光和舞蹈～
要是有一杯南国的温暖
充满了鲜红的灵感之泉，
杯沿明灭着珍珠的泡沫，
给嘴唇染上紫斑; 哦，我要一饮而悄然离开尘寰，和你同去阴暗的林中隐没。

3
远远地、远远地隐没，让我忘掉你在树林中从不知道的一切，忘记这疲劳、热病和焦躁，这使人对坐而悲叹的世界; 在这里，青春苍白、削瘦、死亡，而“瘫痪”有几根白发在摇摆; 在这里，稍一思索就充满了
忧伤和灰眼的绝望，而“美”保持不住明眸的光彩，新生的爱情活不到明天就枯凋。

4
去吧～去吧～我要朝你飞去，不用和酒神坐文豹的车驾，我要展开诗歌的无形羽翼，尽管这头脑已经困顿、疲乏; 去了～呵，我已经和你同往～夜这般温柔，月后正登上宝座，周围是侍卫她的一群星星;
但这儿却不甚明亮，除了有一线天光，被微风带过葱绿的幽暗，和苔藓的曲径。

5
我看不出是哪种花草在脚旁，什么清香的花挂在树枝上; 在温馨的幽暗里，我只能猜想
这个时令该把哪种芬芳赋予这棵树，林莽和草丛，这白枳花，和田野的玫瑰，
这绿叶堆中易谢的紫罗兰，
还有五月中旬的骄宠，这缀满了露酒的麝香蔷薇，它成了夏夜蚊蚋的嗡吟的港湾。

6
我在黑暗里倾听;呵，多少次我几乎爱上了静谧的死亡，我在诗里用尽了好的言辞，求他把我的一息散入空茫; 而现在，哦，死是多么富丽: 在午夜里溘然魂离人间，
当你正倾泻着你的心怀
发出这般的狂喜～你仍将歌唱，但我却不再听见——你的葬歌只能唱给泥土一块。

7
永生的鸟呵，你不会死去～饥饿的时代无法将你蹂躏; 今夜，我偶然听到的歌曲曾使古代的帝王和村夫喜悦。

或许这同样的歌也会激荡露丝忧郁的心，使她不禁落泪，站在异邦的谷田里想着家;
就是这声音常常
在失掉了的仙域里引动窗扉: 一个美女望着大海险恶的浪花。

8
呵，失掉了～这句话好比一声钟使我猛省到我站脚的地方～别了～幻想，这骗人的妖童，不能老耍弄它盛传的伎俩。

别了～别了～你怨诉的歌声流过草坡，越过幽静的溪水，溜上山坡;而此时，它正深深
埋在附近的峪谷中: 噫，这是个幻觉，还是梦寐, 那歌声去了:——我是睡,是醒
醒,
Song of Myself, I,
II, VI & LII
by Walt Whitman
I
I Celebrate myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.
I loafe and invite my soul,
I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass. My tongue, every atom of my blood, form'd from this soil,
this air,
Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and
their parents the same,
I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,
Hoping to cease not till death.
Creeds and schools in abeyance,
Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten,
I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard, Nature without check with original energy.
II
Houses and rooms are full of perfumes.... the shelves
are crowded with perfumes,
I breathe the fragrance myself, and know it and like it,
The distillation would intoxicate
me also, but I shall not let it.
The atmosphere is not a
perfume.... it has no taste
of the distillation.... it is odorless,
It is for my mouth forever.... I am in love with it,
I will go to the bank by the wood and become undisguised and naked,
I am mad for it to be in contact with me.
The smoke of my own breath,
Echoes, ripples, and buzzed
whispers.... loveroot, silkthread,
crotch and vine,
My respiration and
inspiration.... the beating of my heart....
the passing of blood and air through my lungs,
The sniff of green leaves and dry leaves, and of the shore
and darkcolored sea-rocks, and
of hay in the barn,
The sound of the belched words of my voice.... words loosed
to the eddies of the wind,
A few light kisses.... a few embraces.... reaching around of arms, The play of shine and shade on the trees as the supple boughs wag, The delight alone or in the rush of the streets, or along
the fields and hill-sides,
The feeling of health.... the full-noon trill.... the song of me
rising from bed and meeting the sun.
Have you reckoned a thousand acres much? Have you reckoned
the earth much?
Have you practiced so long to learn to read?
Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems?
Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin
of all poems,
You shall possess the good of the earth and sun.... there are millions of suns left,
You shall no longer take things at second or third hand.... nor look through the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the spectres
in books,
You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me, You shall listen to all sides and filter them from yourself.
VI
A child said What is the grass?
fetching it to me with full
hands;
How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any
more than he.
I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful
green stuff woven.
Or I guess if is the handkerchief of the Lord,
A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropt,
Bearing the owner's name
someway in the corners, that we
may see and remark,
and say Whose?
Or I guess the grass is itself a child,
the produced babe of
the vegetation.
Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic,
And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow zones,
Growing among black folks as among white,
Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the same, I receive then
the same.
And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves. Tenderly will I use you curling grass,
It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men,
It may be you are from old people, or from offspring taken, It may be if I had known them I
would have loved them,
soon out of their
mother's laps,
And here you are the mothers' laps.
This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old
mothers,
Darker than the colorless beards of old men,
Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths.
O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues,
And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths
for nothing.
I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men and women,
And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring taken soon out of their laps.
What do you think has become of the young and old men?
And what do you think has become of the women and
children?
They are alive and well
somewhere,
The smallest sprout shows there is really no death,
And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the end to arrest it,
And ceas'd the moment life appear'd.
All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses,
And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.
LII
The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me, he complains
of my gab and my
loitering.
I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable,
I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.
The last scud of day holds back for me,
It flings my likeness after the rest
and true as any on the shadow'd wilds,
It coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk.
I depart as air, I shake my white locks at the runaway sun, I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags.
I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love, If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.
You will hardly know who I am or what I mean,
But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,
And filter and fibre your blood.
Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,
Missing me one place search
another,
I stop somewhere waiting for you.
我赞美我自己，歌唱我自己，
我承担的你也将承担，
因为属于我的每一个原子也同样属于你。

我闲步，还邀请了我的灵魂，
我俯身悠然观察着一片夏日的草叶。

我的舌，我血液的每个原子，是在这片土壤、这个空气里形成的，是这里的
父母生下的，父母的父母也是在这里生下的，他们的父母也一样，我，现在三十
七岁，一生下身体就十分健康，
希望永远如此，直到死去。

信条和学派暂时不论，
且后退一步，明了它们当前的情况已足，但也决不是忘记，不论我从善从
恶，我允许随意发表意见，
顺乎自然，保持原始的活力。

二
屋里、室内充满了芳香，书架上也挤满了芳香，我自己呼吸了香味，认识了
它也喜欢它，
其精华也会使我陶醉，但我不容许这样。

大气层不是一种芳香，没有香料的味道，它是无气味的，它永远供我口用，
我热爱它，
我要去林畔的河岸那里，脱去伪装，赤条条地，我狂热地要它和我接触。

我自己呼吸的云雾，
回声，细浪，窃窃私语，爱根，丝线，枝橙和藤蔓，我的呼和吸，我心脏的
跳动，通过我肺部畅流的血液和空气，嗅到绿叶和枯叶、海岸和黑色的海边岩石
和谷仓里的干草，我喉咙里迸出辞句的声音飘散在风的旋涡里，几次轻吻，几次拥抱，伸出两臂想搂住什么，树枝的柔条摆动时光和影在树上的游戏，独居，在闹市或沿着田地和山坡一带的乐趣，健康之感，正午时的颤音，我
从床上起来迎接太阳时唱的歌。

你认为一千亩就很多了吗,你认为地球就很大了吗, 为了学会读书你练习了很久吗,
因为你想努力懂得诗歌的含意就感到十分自豪吗, 今天和今晚请和我在一起，你将明了所有诗歌的来源，你将占有大地和太阳的好处(另外还有千百万个太阳)，你将不会再第二手、第三手起接受事物，也不会借死人的眼睛观察，或从书本中的幽灵那里汲取营养，你也不会借我的眼睛观察，不会通过我而接受事物，你将听取各个方面，由你自己过滤一切。