[译] 我估量我遇上的每次悲伤
《艾米莉·狄金森诗选》
第一部分：生活
116
我估量我遇上的每次悲伤
用我善于分析的双眼；
我想知道它是和我一样重，
还是形态更轻巧。
我想知道它们是由来已久，
还是刚刚发生？
我说不出我的悲伤的日子
但感觉却痛苦了很久。
我想知道它是靠伤害而活，
还是不得不这样，
又或者它们可以选择其一，
如果它们不愿意消失。
我想知道是否当岁月累积
就此而言，比如一千年
时间流逝是否能让
许久之前的伤害终止；
还是它们将继续疼痛
历经上述的数个世纪，
与爱相比，它们愈发照进
一个更大的痛苦里。
人们告诉我，悲伤的不在少数；
更深的原因在于，——
只有一个死亡，且只来一次，
而且只会钉住眼睛。
有匮乏的悲伤和寒冷的悲伤，——
一种他们称作“绝望”的东西；
有从本地人的眼睛里消失的流放，
直到看不见当地的空气。
尽管我可能猜不对它的种类
但对我而言
在经过的骷髅地时
它给我一种锐利的安慰。
看着那些孤单伫立着的
十字架样式，
还是会醉心于推测
有些就像是我的。
CXVI
I MEASURE every grief I meet
With analytic eyes;
I wonder if it weighs like mine,
Or has an easier size.
I wonder if they bore it long,
Or did it just begin?
I could not tell the date of mine,
It feels so old a pain.
I wonder if it hurts to live,
And if they have to try,
And whether, could they choose between,
They would not rather die.
I wonder if when years have piled—
Some thousands—on the cause
Of early hurt, if such a lapse
Could give them any pause;
Or would they go on aching still
Through centuries above,
Enlightened to a larger pain
By contrast with the love.
The grieved are many, I am told;
The reason deeper lies,—
Death is but one and comes but once,
And only nails the eyes.
There ’s grief of want, and grief of cold,—
A sort they call “despair”;
There ’s banishment from native eyes,
In sight of native air.
And though I may not guess the kind
Correctly, yet to me
A piercing comfort it affords
In passing Calvary,
To note the fashions of the cross,
Of those that stand alone,
Still fascinated to presume
That some are like my own.
2014.4.2
第一部分：生活
116
我估量我遇上的每次悲伤
用我善于分析的双眼；
我想知道它是和我一样重，
还是形态更轻巧。
我想知道它们是由来已久，
还是刚刚发生？
我说不出我的悲伤的日子
但感觉却痛苦了很久。
我想知道它是靠伤害而活，
还是不得不这样，
又或者它们可以选择其一，
如果它们不愿意消失。
我想知道是否当岁月累积
就此而言，比如一千年
时间流逝是否能让
许久之前的伤害终止；
还是它们将继续疼痛
历经上述的数个世纪，
与爱相比，它们愈发照进
一个更大的痛苦里。
人们告诉我，悲伤的不在少数；
更深的原因在于，——
只有一个死亡，且只来一次，
而且只会钉住眼睛。
有匮乏的悲伤和寒冷的悲伤，——
一种他们称作“绝望”的东西；
有从本地人的眼睛里消失的流放，
直到看不见当地的空气。
尽管我可能猜不对它的种类
但对我而言
在经过的骷髅地时
它给我一种锐利的安慰。
看着那些孤单伫立着的
十字架样式，
还是会醉心于推测
有些就像是我的。
CXVI
I MEASURE every grief I meet
With analytic eyes;
I wonder if it weighs like mine,
Or has an easier size.
I wonder if they bore it long,
Or did it just begin?
I could not tell the date of mine,
It feels so old a pain.
I wonder if it hurts to live,
And if they have to try,
And whether, could they choose between,
They would not rather die.
I wonder if when years have piled—
Some thousands—on the cause
Of early hurt, if such a lapse
Could give them any pause;
Or would they go on aching still
Through centuries above,
Enlightened to a larger pain
By contrast with the love.
The grieved are many, I am told;
The reason deeper lies,—
Death is but one and comes but once,
And only nails the eyes.
There ’s grief of want, and grief of cold,—
A sort they call “despair”;
There ’s banishment from native eyes,
In sight of native air.
And though I may not guess the kind
Correctly, yet to me
A piercing comfort it affords
In passing Calvary,
To note the fashions of the cross,
Of those that stand alone,
Still fascinated to presume
That some are like my own.
2014.4.2
