豎琴編織者之歌

作者： 艾德娜 ·聖文森· 米蕾

譯者： 刁卿蕙

The Ballad of the Harp-Weaver（30節敘事體）

By Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892 –1950)

 錄自《米蕾詩選》

https://arttiaobooks.blogspot.com/2023/03/poetry-selected-poems-of-edna-st.html

“Son,” said my mother,
   When I was knee-high,
“You’ve need of clothes to cover you,
   And not a rag have I.

「兒啊，」我母親說，

當我身高及膝頭，

「你需要衣服來遮掩」，

而我連塊破布也沒有。
 

“There’s nothing in the house
   To make a boy breeches,
Nor shears to cut a cloth with
   Nor thread to take stitches.

房裡啥都無

可給男孩做件褲，

沒剪可裁衣

也沒線可縫布

“There’s nothing in the house
   But a loaf-end of rye,
And a harp with a woman’s head
   Nobody will buy,”
   And she began to cry.

房裡啥都無

除了黑麥麵包皮，

和帶個女人頭的豎琴

沒人會買的，

她開始哭泣。
 

That was in the early fall.
   When came the late fall,
“Son,” she said, “the sight of you
   Makes your mother’s blood crawl,—

那是早秋時候。

到了晚秋時候，

「兒啊，」她說，「看到你

為母的血在流，---
 

“Little skinny shoulder-blades
   Sticking through your clothes!
And where you’ll get a jacket from
   God above knows.
 

「瘦小肩胛骨

從你衣突出

你到哪找件外套

知道的只天主。

“It’s lucky for me, lad,
   Your daddy’s in the ground,
And can’t see the way I let
   His son go around!”
   And she made a queer sound.

「算我幸運，小子，

你爹下土壤，

看不到我讓

他兒這樣到處晃！」

她發出個怪聲響。
 

That was in the late fall.
   When the winter came,
I’d not a pair of breeches
   Nor a shirt to my name.

 那是在晚秋。

當來了冬天，

我没半短褲

也沒自己的襯衫。

I couldn’t go to school,
   Or out of doors to play.
And all the other little boys
   Passed our way.

我不能上學，

或出門玩。

所有其他小男孩

繞過我家前。

“Son,” said my mother,
   “Come, climb into my lap,
And I’ll chafe your little bones
   While you take a nap.”

「兒啊，」我母親說，

「來，爬上我大腿，

我會擦暖你的小骨頭，

趁你在小睡。」
 

And, oh, but we were silly
   For half an hour or more,
Me with my long legs
   Dragging on the floor,

噢，我們還真傻

半個鐘頭或更長，

我的長腳

就拖地上，
 

A-rock-rock-rocking                          
   To a mother-goose rhyme!
Oh, but we were happy
   For half an hour’s time!

搖-呀-搖-搖呀搖

和著鵝媽媽的韻！

噢，但我們很快樂

約半個鐘頭的光陰！

 
But there was I, a great boy,
   And what would folks say
To hear my mother singing me
   To sleep all day,
   In such a daft way?
 

但我呀，一個大男孩，

其他村民可會說嘴

當聽見我娘唱著歌

成天哄我睡，

用這種愚蠢的行為？

Men say the winter
   Was bad that year;
Fuel was scarce,
   And food was dear.

人們說冬天

很差那年；

燃料缺少，

食物費錢。

 
A wind with a wolf’s head
   Howled about our door,
And we burned up the chairs
   And sat on the floor.
 

風帶著狼頭

呼嘯我家門四方，

我們燒掉了椅子

然後坐地上。

All that was left us
   Was a chair we couldn’t break,
And the harp with a woman’s head
   Nobody would take,
   For song or pity’s sake.

留下的只有

一張打不壞的椅，

和帶著女人頭的豎琴

沒人理，

為了歌或出於憐惜。  

 
The night before Christmas
   I cried with the cold,
I cried myself to sleep
   Like a two-year-old.

聖誕前夜

我哭了因冷，

我哭著入睡

像個兩歲童。
 

And in the deep night
   I felt my mother rise,
And stare down upon me
   With love in her eyes.

在深夜裡

我感覺母親起來，

往下看着我

眼中帶了愛。

 
I saw my mother sitting
   On the one good chair,
A light falling on her
   From I couldn’t tell where,

我看到母親坐著

在那張好椅上，

一道光落在她身上

從我不知的方向，

 
Looking nineteen,
   And not a day older,
And the harp with a woman’s head
   Leaned against her shoulder.

看起來十九歲，

沒老過一天，

那座帶女人頭的豎琴

就靠在她的肩。
 

Her thin fingers, moving
   In the thin, tall strings,
Were weav-weav-weaving
   Wonderful things.

她的細指頭，移動著

在細細，高高弦裡

正在織-織-織著

美妙的東西。
 

Many bright threads,
   From where I couldn’t see,
Were running through the harp-strings
  Rapidly,

很多明亮的線，

看不見來處，

穿進穿出琴弦

急速速，

 
And gold threads whistling
   Through my mother’s hand.
I saw the web grow,
   And the pattern expand.

金線嗖嗖響

從母親的手穿過。

我見網變大，

花樣擴。

She wove a child’s jacket,
   And when it was done
She laid it on the floor
   And wove another one.

她織了件童衣，

這件做完

放在地上

再織另一件。

 She wove a red cloak

   So regal to see,


“She’s made it for a king’s son,”

   I said, “and not for me.”

   But I knew it was for me.

她織了件紅斗篷

看起來好貴氣喔，

「她是做給國王的兒子，」

我說，「不是為我。」

但我知是為了我。

She wove a pair of breeches

   Quicker than that!

She wove a pair of boots

   And a little cocked hat.

她織了件半短褲子

快過前一件！

她織了雙靴子

和一頂小帽翹着邊。

She wove a pair of mittens,

   She wove a little blouse,

She wove all night

   In the still, cold house.

她織了雙手掌笠，

她織了件小襯衣，

她織了一整夜

在没風的，冷屋裡。

She sang as she worked,

   And the harp-strings spoke;

Her voice never faltered,

   And the thread never broke.

   And when I awoke,—

她邊唱邊做，

琴弦發了聲；

她的音從沒顫抖過，

線也一直没崩。

   當我睡醒，--

There sat my mother

   With the harp against her shoulder

Looking nineteen

   And not a day older,

我母親坐在那邊

豎琴靠著她的肩

看起來十九歲

沒有老過一天，

A smile about her lips,

   And a light about her head,

And her hands in the harp-strings

   Frozen dead.

她唇上帶笑意

一道光芒環頭上，

雙手在琴弦裏

凍僵。

And piled up beside her

   And toppling to the skies,

Were the clothes of a king’s son,

   Just my size.

她旁邊堆起

累高上天空 ，

是王子的衣，

正合我身型。