祝福你呀，赤足小子！

翻开一本十几年前先生寄给我的诗集（one hundred and one famous poems)，一首名为赤足小子～《the barefoot boy》的诗吸引了我。当我把它翻译出来的时候，我的心也跟着那个小小男孩一起欢跃，就连院子里那偷果子的小松鼠，游泳池边戏水的野鸭子，房瓦上的野鹅，还有那曾经蛰过我的黄蜂。。。也跟着可爱起来。

愿你做大自然之子，永远不失去纯真，探索，渴求的童心。


赤足小子 (网上图片）

 

《赤足小子》 中文翻译： 京燕儿 祝福你呀，小家伙！ 赤足男孩，面颊黝黑， 卷起灯笼裤脚别样俏， 吹着你那轻快的口哨； 山坡上的草莓吻过～ 你红润欲滴的双唇； 磨破的帽檐下闪烁～ 你阳光宠儿的桀骜； 从心底我为你祝福～ 我也曾是赤足小子！ 你是小王子，那些成年人 不过是平平政客。 让百万富翁驾车驰骋去吧 ！ 你赤足跋涉就与他齐头并进， 你眼观耳闻的世界～ 他再多钱财买不到； 内心的欢悦洋溢于阳光的外表： 祝福你呀，赤足小子！ 哦，童真无忌玩耍时， 一觉睡到天明又欢笑， 健壮戏谑医师规则， 知识何必来自学校。 那野蜂在清晨相互追逐， 那野花绽放的时间地点。 飞鸟筑巢， 森林栖客； 乌龟怎样背着他的壳呀， 啄木鸟如何哚出他的屋， 土拨鼠怎样挖他的井穴； 知更鸟如何喂养她幼雏， 黄鹂又怎样把鸟巢悬挂； 最洁白的百合香飘何方， 最新鲜的莓子哪里生长？ 落花生的茎杆向何处攀沿， 木葡萄晶莹串珠哪里藏匿？ 睿智的黑马蜂～ 如能工巧匠筑泥墙； 艺术的灰黄蜂～ 似建筑大师展蓝图！ 看吧，抛开书本和作业， 大自然为他解惑答疑； 手牵手他与她并肩前行， 面对面他与她谈天说地； 分享她全部的喜与乐～ 祝福你呀，赤足小子！ 哦，那童真孩提六月时光， 流年浓缩在短暂的月， 眼观耳闻的一切啊， 我悉心期盼做主人。 我富有～那鲜花大树都归我， 蜂鸟蜜蜂也为我鸣。 小松鼠与我同嬉戏， 鼹鼠用尖鼻子作铲勤掘洞； 摘黑莓塔教会我品味生活 蔓延染紫了篱笆墙与石头缝； 小溪唱过我的欢歌， 白昼交接 夜色迷漫， 墙里悄声 墙外细语， 瀑布潺潺 花园流连； 沙丘围拢着的是我的梭鱼湖， 核桃林一望无边有我的山坡， 硕果累累我的果树笑弯了腰， 希腊神话少女金苹果其中坐！ 还有哪，我的地平线在延展， 我的财富也持续激增； 我所认知的全部世界 犹如繁复的中国玩具， 为赤足小子特地打造！ 哦，节日的精美佳肴， 象我那杯牛奶加面包～ 锡质的勺子木头碗， 门口青石阶灰且糙！ 落日做帐篷洒头顶， 纤云如彩带当空舞， 绛紫色帘幕镶金线， 微风吹绉褶起波澜； 侧耳倾听音乐乍起， 小青蛙交响曲奏鸣； 萤火虫点点闪灯火， 轻飘飘飞舞照乐队。 我是君王，浮华欢跃 甘当汝仆，赤足小子！ 那么，欢悦吧，我的小家伙， 孩提时代，就该活出淋漓畅快！ 也许山头的石坡嫌太硬， 也许新割的草茬针样扎， 每天清晨～ 穿越那露水为你洗礼； 每天傍晚～ 凉风轻吻你余热脚底。 不要多久，这脚就被藏匿， 成为傲慢的阶下囚， 失去了踏青的自由， 如小马驹被钉铁掌，走上职场， 套入上下求索～ 永远转不完的磨场。。。 欣喜吧！倘若你永远不在那禁地～ 发现他留下的足迹； 万幸啊！假如他从不迷失自己～ 陷入危险流沙罪孽境地。 啊，但愿你知晓你的福份， 莫待他溜走吧，赤足小子！

The Barefoot Boy by John Greenleaf Whittier Blessings on thee, little man, Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan! With thy turned-up pantaloons, And thy merry whistled tunes; With thy red lip, redder still Kissed by strawberries on the hill; With the sunshine on thy face, Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace; From my heart I give thee joy,-- I was once a barefoot boy! Prince thou art,--the grown-up man Only is republican. Let the million-dollared ride! Barefoot, trudging at his side, Thou hast more than he can buy In the reach of ear and eye,-- Outward sunshine, inward joy: Blessings on thee, barefoot boy! Oh for boyhood's painless play, Sleep that wakes in laughing day, Health that mocks the doctor's rules, Knowledge never learned of schools, Of the wild bee's morning chase, Of the wild flower's time and place, Flight of fowl and habitude, Of the tenants of the wood; How the tortoise bears his shell, How the woodchuck digs his cell, And the ground mole sinks his well How the robin feeds her young, How the oriole's nest is hung; Where the whitest lilies blow, Where the freshest berries grow, Where the groundnut trails its vine, Where the wood grape's clusters shine; Of the black wasp's cunning way, Mason of his walls of clay, And the architectural plans Of gray hornet artisans!-- For, eschewing books and tasks, Nature answers all he asks; Hand in hand with her he walks, Face to face with her he talks, Part and parcel of her joy,-- Blessings on thee, barefoot boy! Oh for boyhood's time of June, Crowding years in one brief moon, When all things I heard or saw Me, their master, waited for. I was rich in flowers and trees, Humming birds and honeybees; For my sport the squirrel played, Plied the snouted mole his spade; For my taste the blackberry cone Purpled over hedge and stone; Laughed the brook for my delight Through the day and through the night Whispering at the garden wall, Talked with me from fall to fall; Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond, Mine the walnut slopes beyond, Mine, on bending orchard trees, Apples of Hesperides! Still, as my horizon grew, Larger grew my riches too; All the world I saw or knew Seemed a complex Chinese toy, Fashioned for a barefoot boy! Oh for festal dainties spread, Like my bowl of milk and bread,-- Pewter spoon and bowl of wood, On the doorstone, gray and rude! O'er me, like a regal tent, Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent, Purple-curtained, fringed with gold; Looped in many a wind-swung fold; While for music came the play Of the pied frog's orchestra; And to light the noisy choir, Lit the fly his lamp of fire. I was monarch: pomp and joy Waited on the barefoot boy! Cheerily, then, my little man, Live and laugh, as boyhood can! Though the flinty slopes be hard, Stubble-speared the new-mown sward Every morn shall lead thee through Fresh baptisms of the dew; Every evening from thy feet Shall the cool wind kiss the heat: All too soon these feet must hide In the prison cells of pride, Lose the freedom of the sod, Like a colt's for work be shod, Made to tread the mills of toil, Up and down in ceaseless moil: Happy if their track be found Never on forbidden ground; Happy if they sink not in Quick and treacherous sands of sin. Ah! that thou shouldst know thy joy Ere it passes, barefoot boy!

 

http://myweb.northshore.edu/users/sherman/whittier/haverhill/barefootboy.html