《雨前》的作者是中国现代著名诗人、散文家何其芳

译文来源
< 1 >译文1为张梦井、杜耀文译，选自张梦井、杜耀文编译，1999年,《中国名家散文精译》。青岛：青岛出版社。

< 2 > 译文2为Robert Neather译，选自《中国翻译》2002年第4期。

< 3 >译文3为张培基译，选自张培基译注，2003年,《英译中国现代散文选》。上海：上海外语教育出版社。

【原文】
雨前
最后的鸽群带着低弱的笛声在微风里划一个圈子后，也消失了。也许是误认这灰暗的凄冷的天空为夜色的来袭，或是也预感到风雨的将至，遂过早地飞回它们温暖的木舍。
几天的阳光在柳条上撤下的一抹嫩绿，被尘土埋掩得有憔悴色了，是需要一次洗涤。还有干裂的大地和树根也早已期待着雨。雨却迟疑着。
我怀想着故乡的雷声和雨声。那隆隆的有力的搏击，从山谷反响到山谷，仿佛春之芽就从冻土里震动，惊醒，而怒茁出来。细草样柔的雨丝又以温存之手抚摸它，使它簇生油绿的枝叶而开出红色的花。这些怀想如乡愁一样萦绕得使我忧郁了。我心里的气候也和这北方大陆一样缺少雨量，一滴温柔的泪在我枯涩的眼里，如迟疑在这阴沉的天空里的雨点，久不落下。
白色的鸭也似有一点烦躁了，有不洁的颜色的都市的河沟里传出它们焦急的叫声。有的还未厌倦那船一样的徐徐的划行。有的却倒插它们的长颈在水里，红色的蹼趾伸在尾后，不停地扑击着水以支持身体的平衡。不知是在寻找沟底的细微食物，还是贪那深深的水里的寒冷。
有几个已上岸了。在柳树下来回地作绅士的散步，舒息划行的疲劳。然后参差地站着，用嘴细细地抚理它们遍体白色的羽毛，间或又摇动身子或扑展着阔翅，使那缀在羽毛间的水珠坠落。一个已修饰完毕的，弯曲它的颈到背上，长长的红嘴藏没在翅膀里，静静合上它白色的茸毛间的小黑眼，仿佛准备睡眠。可怜的小动物，你就是这样做你的梦吗?
我想起故乡放雏鸭的人了。一大群鹅黄色的雏鸭游牧在溪流间。清浅的水，两岸青青的草，一根长长的竹竿在牧人的手里。他的小队伍是多么欢欣地发出啾啁声，又多么驯服地随着他的竿头越过一个田野又一个山坡!夜来了，帐幕似的竹篷撑在地上，就是他的家。但这是怎样辽远的想象啊!在这多尘土的国度里，我仅只希望听见一点树叶上的雨声。一点雨声的幽凉滴到我憔悴的梦，也许会长成一树圆圆的绿阴来覆荫我自己。
我仰起头。天空低垂如灰色雾幕，落下一些寒冷的碎屑到我脸上。一只远来的鹰隼仿佛带着愤怒，对这沉重的天色的愤怒，平张的双翅不动地从天空斜插下，几乎触到河沟对岸的土阜，而又鼓扑着双翅，作出猛烈的声响腾上了。那样巨大的翅使我惊异。我看见了它两胁间斑白的羽毛。
接着听见了它有力的鸣声，如同一个巨大的心的呼号，或是在黑暗里寻找伴侣的叫唤。然而雨还是没有来。

【译文】

译文1 Before the Rain

Having made the last circle in the breeze, the last of the pigeons disappeared with a faint whistle. Perhaps they mistakingly thought the dark and cold sky to be the coming dim light of night , or perhaps they predicted the coming wind and rain; thus they flew to their warm wooden nest rather early.
A plaster of soft green cast on the willow branches after several days of sunlight now had become somewhat withered under the dust. It was in great need of a wash. And the cracked, parched earth and tree roots had long been waiting for rain. But still the rain was slow in coming.
I thought of the sound of thunder and rain in my home village. The violent rumbling thunderclapse echoed from valley to valley. It seemed as if spring shoots were shaken, awakened and broke out slender green from the frozen earth. The sound of the rain as soft and thin as grass fondled them with gentle hands, making them shoot up in clusters of glossy dark green branches that waved their blossoming red flowers. This feeling of nostalgia hovered about me, making me feel melancholy in my heart. The weather in my heart felt just like the immense land in the north that was also lacking rain. A soft tear drop hesitated before falling from my dull and heavy eyes just like the rain paused in the gloomy sky.
The white ducks looked a bit agitated, for their anxious cries came from ditches in the city which had become contaminated and changed colour. Some were not weary, paddling slowly along like boats ; others were putting their long necks into water, stretching their red webbed toes behind and constantly stroking the water to keep their bodies balanced. I don’t know whether they were searching for small bits of food at the bottom or just lingering in the coolness of the water below.
Some had climbed on to the banks and were walking back and forth under a willow tree just like some gentlemen relieving their fatigue of paddling. Then they stood there irregularly, pluming their feathers carefully with their beaks. Sometimes , they swung their bodies or stretched their broad wings out to shake off the water drops in their feathers. One of them had finished the pluming, curling its neck upon the back with its long red beak buried within its wing and little eyes(which were among the fine white soft hair) closed, as if it were going to sleep. Poor small animal , are you dreaming in this way?
Thus I recalled the duckling tenders in my home village. A great swarm of yellowish crane ducklings floated in the streams , the shallow blue water beneath, the green grass on both banks, and the long bamboo pole in the hands of the tender. How merrily when his small army was chirping and how timidly when it was passing by one field to another hill slope! When the night fell, a tent-like bamboo cover was erected on the ground as his home. But how far away these images appeared! In this dusty land I could only hope for a bit rain pattering on the tree leaves. Here the coolness of a drop of rain dripping into my anxious dreams would grow into a round and shady trees to cover myself.
Lifting my head, I saw the sky hung like a grey curtain of mist, and some chips of coldness fell upon my face. An eagle from afar kept on flying down with its wings inclined, as if it were expressing its angry feeling against the heavy weather. When it nearly touched the earth on the other bank of the ditch, and then shaking its wings violently, it soared high. Its two huge wings made me surprised, for under which I saw its greyish feathers.
Then I heard its virgorous cry,just like the cry of a big heart or a call in search of its companion in the dark.
But still the rain was late in coming.

译文2 Before the Rain

With a faint whistling, the last flock of pigeons etched a circle in the light breeze, then disappeared. Perhaps they mistook the darkness of this chilly, lowering sky for the onset of night, or perhaps they sensed the arrival of a storm, and so returned early to the warmth of their wooden pigeonry.
The few days' sunlight had splashed the willow twigs with the tender green of new growth,but the dust that now covered them made them seem tired and withered, in need of a wash. And the parched, split earth and tree-roots had long since been awaiting rain. But the rain hesitated.
I remember fondly the sounds of my birthplace—the sounds of thunder and of rain. Those mighty crashes rumbled and reverberated from mountain valley to mountain valley, as if the new shoots of spring were shaking in the frozen gound, awakening, and bursting forth with a terrifying vigour. Threads of rain, soft as fine grass, would then caress them with a tender hand, so that clumps of glossy green leaves would sprout forth and red flowers burst open. These fond recollections lingered with me like a kind of homesickness, leaving me dejected. Within my heart, the climate seemed as parched of rain as this northern continent; and like the raindrops, still hesitating in this leaden sky, for a long time not a single tear of tenderness had fallen from my arid eyes.
Even the white ducks seemed a little unsentted, their anxious cries rising from the dirty city stream. Some had not yet wearied of their gentle boat-like paddling. But others had stuck their long necks into the water, their red webbed feet stretching out behind their tails, continually thrashing at the water in an attempt to keep their bodies balanced. Perhaps they were searching for morsels of food on the stream-bed; or maybe they sought the chill cold of the deep water.
Some had come up onto the bank. They swaggered back and forth under the willow trees, enjoying a rest from the fatigue of paddling.Then they stood still, in ungainly disarray, smoothing each white feather carefully into place with their beaks; now and then they would shake their bodies or spread their wings, scattering the drops of water caught in their feathers. One that had already finished preening curled its neck up over its back, buried its red beak under its wing, and quietly closed its little black eye,surrounded by soft white down, as if it were preparing to sleep. You poor little creature, is this the way you dream your dreams?
I thought of the person in my birthplace who used to release the ducklings. A great crowd of light yellow ducklings would be taken to the waters of the creek—limpid water, lush green grass on the banks, and a long bamboo staff in the herder's hand. How happy his little army was, cheeping with noisy delight! And how meekly they followed his staff, over a field and then a mountain slope! When night came, the bamboo shelter propped up on the ground like a tent was his home. Yet what a distant image this is now! In this country of dust, all I hope for is to hear the sound of raindrop on leaves. The dark cool of the sound of raindrops,dripping into my parched and weary dreams, might grow a rounded canopy of tree-green shade to cover me.
I raised my head. The sky loomed like a grey curtain of fog, dropping a few cold shards upon my face. A lone hawk from afar swooped down from the sky, as if angered, angered by the these leaden skies, its spread wings unmoving, until it almost hit the earthen slope of the stream’s opposite bank; then it beat its wings and soared back up with a savage stridor. Those huge wings startled me. I could see the greyish feathers of its flanks.
And when I heard its piercing cry, it was like a terrible cry from the heart; or perhaps it was calling its mate amid the darkness.
Yet still the rain didn’t come.

译文3 Praying for Rainfall

The last flock of pigeons have also gone out of sight after doing their final circling in the soft breeze, the sound of their whistles barely audible. They are hastening back to their warm wooden dovecote earlier than usual perhaps because they have mistaken the bleak leaden sky for nightfall or because of their presentiment of a storm.
The willow twigs, daubed with a light green by several days of sunshine, are now covered all over with the dust and look so sickly that they need to be washed. And the perched soil and tree roots have likewise been dying for rainfall. Yet the rain is reluctant to come down.
I can never forget the thunderstorm we often had in my home town. Over there, whenever the rumble of thunder reverberated across the valley, the buds of spring would seem to sprout freely after being disturbed and roused up from their slumber in the frozen soil. Then tenderly stroked by the soft hands of fine rain, they would put forth bright green leaves and pink flowers. It makes me nostalgic and melancholy to think about the old times and my mind is as depressed as the vast expanse of North China is thirsty. A tear stands in my dull eye and, like the rain lingering in the murky sky, is slow to roll down.
White ducks have also become somewhat impatient. Some are sending out irritated quacks from the turbid waters of an urban creek. Some keep swimming leisurely and tirelessly like a slow boat. Some have their long necks submerged headfirst in the water while sticking up their webbed feet behind their tails and splashing them desperately so as to keep their balance. There is no knowing if they are searching for tiny bits of food from the bottom of the creek or just enjoying the chill of the deep water.
Some of them stagger out of the water and, to relieve their fatigure, begin to saunter up and down with a gentleman-like swagger in the shade of the willow trees. Then, they stand about to preen their white plumage carefully. Occasionally they give themselves a sudden shake or flap their long wings to let off water drops from among their feathers. One of them, after grooming itself, turns round its neck to rest on the back, then buries its long red beak under its wings and quietly closes its small black eyes tucked away among the white find hair. Apparently it is getting ready to sleep. Poor little creature, is that the way you sleep?
The scene recalls to my mind the duckling raiser in my home town. With a long bamboo pole in hand, he would look after a large flock of gosling-yellow ducklings moving about on the limpid water of a shallow brook flanked on both sides by green grass. How the little creatures jig-jigged merrily! How they obediently followed the bamboo pole to scamper over field after field, hillside after hillside! When night fell, the duckling raiser would make his home in a tent-like bamboo shed. Oh, that is something of the distant past! Now, in this dusty country of ours, what I yearn for is to hear the drip-drip of rain beating against leaves.
When I look up at a gray misty pall of a low-hanging sky, some dust particles feel chilly on my face. A hawk, seemingly irked by the gloomy sky, swoops down sideways out of nowhere, with wings widespread and immovable, until it almost hits the hillock on the other side of the brook. But it soars skywards again with a loud flap. I am amazed by its tremendous size of its wings. And I also catch sight of the grizzled feathers on its underside.
Then I hear its loud cry—like a powerful voice from the bottom of its heart or a call in the dark for its comrades in arms.
But still no rain.