猛虎,猛虎,火焰似的烧红
在深夜的莽丛,
何等神明的巨眼或是手
能擘画你的骇人的雄厚?
在何等遥远的海底还是天顶
烧着你眼火的纯晶?
跨什么翅膀他胆敢飞腾?
凭什么手敢擒住那威棱?
是何等肩腕,是何等神通,
能雕镂你的脏腑的系统?
等到你的心开始了活跳,
何等震惊的手,何等震惊的脚?
椎的是什么锤?使的是什么练?
在什么洪炉里熬炼你的脑液?
什么砧座?什么骇异的拿把
胆敢它的凶恶的惊怕擒抓?
当群星放射它们的金芒,
满天上泛滥着它们的泪光,
见到他的工程,他露不露笑容?
追你的不就是那造小羊的神工?
猛虎,猛虎,火焰似的烧红
在深夜的莽丛,
何等神明的巨眼或是手
胆敢擘画你的惊人的雄厚?
TIGER, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire
And what shoulder and what art
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand and what dread feet?
What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? What dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?
When the stars threw down their spears,
And water'd heaven with their tears,
Did He smile His work to see?
Did He who made the lamb make thee?
Tiger, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
在骄傲的道上走着的人们,在他们的足下蹂躏着卑微的生命,地面上的嫩绿印着他们血染的脚踪:
让他们快活去,我们并且感谢你天帝的慈恩,因为他们占领这一天的风光。
但我却感谢我是与卑微的共同着运命,他们忍受着,负载着权力的重量,他们掩护着他们的顽面,在黑暗中吞声的饮泣。
他们一阵阵的抽痛都已跳荡入你的黑夜的隐秘之深沉里,他们忍受的每一次侮辱归纳在你的伟大的沉默里。
清晨是他们的了。
太阳呀,升起来照着流血的心开作清晨的鲜花,也照出骄傲的火炬的夜晏萎成了灰烬。
Those who walk on the path of pride crushing the lowly life under their tread ,covering the tender green of the earth with their footprints in blood:
Let them rejoice, and thank thee, lord, for the day is theirs.
But I am thankful that my lot lies with the humble who suffer the burden of power, and hide their faces and strifle their sobs in the dark
For every throb of their pain has pushed in the secret depth of thy night, and every insult has been gathered into thy great silence.
And the marrow is theirs.
O Sun, rise upon the bleeding hearts blossoming in flowers of the morning, and the torchlight revelry of pride shrunken to ashes.
在生活的慌忙与扰攘中,美呀,你站着,沉默,静定,孤单,秀挺。
伟大的时间坐在你的脚边眷恋,他小语着:说话,对我说话,我的恋爱;开口呀,我的新娘!
但是你的话像是佛像似的封禁在石壁里,美呀,不可动撼的美!
Amidst the rush and roar of life, O Beauty, carved in stone, you stand mute and still, alone and aloof.
Great Time sits enamoured at your feet and murmurs: "Speak, speak to me, my love; speak, my bride!"
But your speech is shut up in stone, O Immovable Beauty!