作品原文

徐志摩 《石虎胡同七号》

我们的小园庭，有时荡漾着无限温柔：
善笑的藤娘，袒酥怀任团团的柿掌绸缪，
百尺的槐翁，在微风中俯身将棠姑抱搂，
黄狗在篱边，守候睡熟的珀儿，它的小友，
小雀儿新制求婚的艳曲，在媚唱无休——
我们的小园庭，有时荡漾着无限温柔。

我们的小园庭，有时淡描着依稀的梦景；
雨过的苍茫与满庭荫绿，织成无声幽冥，
小蛙独坐在残兰的胸前，听隔院蚓鸣，
一片化不尽的雨云，倦展在老槐树顶，
掠檐前作圆形的舞旋，是蝙蝠，还是蜻蜓？
我们的小园庭，有时淡描着依稀的梦景。

我们的小园庭，有时轻喟着一声奈何；
奈何在暴雨时，雨槌下捣烂鲜红无数，
奈何在新秋时，未凋的青叶惆怅地辞树，
奈何在深夜里，月儿乘云艇归去，西墙已度，
远巷薤露的乐音，一阵阵被冷风吹过——
我们的小园庭，有时轻喟着一声奈何。

我们的小园庭，有时沉浸在快乐之中；
雨后的黄昏，满院只美荫，清香与凉风，
大量的蹇翁，巨樽在手，蹇足直指天空，
一斤，两斤，杯底喝尽，满怀酒欢，满面酒红，
连珠的笑响中，浮沉着神仙似的酒翁——
我们的小园庭，有时沉浸在快乐之中。

英文译文

Seven, Stone Tiger Lane
Hsü Chih-mo

There are times when our little courtyard
ripples with infinite tenderness:
Winsome wisteria, bosom bared,
invites the caress of persimmon leaves,
From his hundred-foot height the sophora
stoops in the breeze to embrace the wild apple,
The yellow dog by the fence watches over
his little friend Amber, fast asleep,
The birds sing their latest mating songs,
trilling on without cease—
There are times when our little courtyard
ripples with infinite tenderness.

There are times when our little courtyard
shades in the setting of a dream:
Across the green shadows the haze after rain
weaves a sealed and silent darkness,
Facing my fading orchids, a single squatting frog
listens out for the cry of a worm in the next garden.
A weary raincloud, still unspent,
stretches above the sophora’s top,
That circling flutter before the eaves—
is it a bat or a dragonfly?
There are times when our little courtyard
shades in the setting of a dream.

There are times when our little courtyard
can only respond with a sign:
A sigh for the times of storm,
when countless red blossoms are pounded and pulped by the rain,
A sign for the early autumn,
when leaves still green fret free with regret from the branch,
A sign for the still of night,
when the moon has boarded her cloud-bark, over the west wall now,
And the wind carries a dirge for a passing,
cold gusts from a distant lane—
There are times when our little courtyard
can only respond with a sign.

There are times when our little courtyard
is inundated with joy;
In the dusk, after rain, the garden
is shaded, fragrant, and cool,
Old Pegleg, the toper, clutches his great jar,
his bad leg pointing to the sky,
And drains his cup, a pint, a quart,
till warmth of wine fills heart and cheeks,
A mythical Bacchus-figure,
swept along on the bubbling of laughter—
There are times when our little courtyard
is inundated with joy.