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      學習啦>學習英語>英語閱讀>英語詩歌>

      艾米·洛威爾的經(jīng)典詩歌:The Cremona Violin

      時間: 焯杰674 分享

        下面是學習啦小編為大家?guī)戆?middot;洛威爾的經(jīng)典詩歌:The Cremona Violin,希望大家喜歡!

        Part First

        Frau Concert-Meister Altgelt shut the door.

        A storm was rising, heavy gusts of wind

        Swirled through the trees, and scattered leaves before

        Her on the clean, flagged path. The sky behind

        The distant town was black, and sharp defined

        Against it shone the lines of roofs and towers,

        Superimposed and flat like cardboard flowers.

        A pasted city on a purple ground,

        Picked out with luminous paint, it seemed. The cloud

        Split on an edge of lightning, and a sound

        Of rivers full and rushing boomed through bowed,

        Tossed, hissing branches. Thunder rumbled loud

        Beyond the town fast swallowing into gloom.

        Frau Altgelt closed the windows of each room.

        She bustled round to shake by constant moving

        The strange, weird atmosphere. She stirred the fire,

        She twitched the supper-cloth as though improving

        Its careful setting, then her own attire

        Came in for notice, tiptoeing higher and higher

        She peered into the wall-glass, now adjusting

        A straying lock, or else a ribbon thrusting

        This way or that to suit her. At last

        sitting,

        Or rather plumping down upon a chair,

        She took her work, the stocking she was knitting,

        And watched the rain upon the window glare

        In white, bright drops. Through the black glass a flare

        Of lightning squirmed about her needles. "Oh!"

        She cried. "What can be keeping Theodore so!"

        A roll of thunder set the casements clapping.

        Frau Altgelt flung her work aside and ran,

        Pulled open the house door, with kerchief flapping

        She stood and gazed along the street. A man

        Flung back the garden-gate and nearly ran

        Her down as she stood in the door. "Why, Dear,

        What in the name of patience brings you here?

        Quick, Lotta, shut the door, my violin

        I fear is wetted. Now, Dear, bring a light.

        This clasp is very much too worn and thin.

        I'll take the other fiddle out to-night

        If it still rains. Tut! Tut! my child, you're quite

        Clumsy. Here, help me, hold the case while I --

        Give me the candle. No, the inside's dry.

        Thank God for that! Well, Lotta, how

        are you?

        A bad storm, but the house still stands, I see.

        Is my pipe filled, my Dear? I'll have a few

        Puffs and a snooze before I eat my tea.

        What do you say? That you were feared for me?

        Nonsense, my child. Yes, kiss me, now don't talk.

        I need a rest, the theatre's a long walk."

        Her needles still, her hands upon her lap

        Patiently laid, Charlotta Altgelt sat

        And watched the rain-run window. In his nap

        Her husband stirred and muttered. Seeing that,

        Charlotta rose and softly, pit-a-pat,

        Climbed up the stairs, and in her little room

        Found sighing comfort with a moon in bloom.

        But even rainy windows, silver-lit

        By a new-burst, storm-whetted moon, may give

        But poor content to loneliness, and it

        Was hard for young Charlotta so to strive

        And down her eagerness and learn to live

        In placid quiet. While her husband slept,

        Charlotta in her upper chamber wept.

        Herr Concert-Meister Altgelt was a man

        Gentle and unambitious, that alone

        Had kept him back. He played as few men can,

        Drawing out of his instrument a tone

        So shimmering-sweet and palpitant, it shone

        Like a bright thread of sound hung in the air,

        Afloat and swinging upward, slim and fair.

        Above all things, above Charlotta his wife,

        Herr Altgelt loved his violin, a fine

        Cremona pattern, Stradivari's life

        Was flowering out of early discipline

        When this was fashioned. Of soft-cutting pine

        The belly was. The back of broadly curled

        Maple, the head made thick and sharply whirled.

        The slanting, youthful sound-holes

        through

        The belly of fine, vigorous pine

        Mellowed each note and blew

        It out again with a woody flavour

        Tanged and fragrant as fir-trees are

        When breezes in their needles jar.

        The varnish was an orange-brown

        Lustered like glass that's long laid down

        Under a crumbling villa stone.

        Purfled stoutly, with mitres which point

        Straight up the corners. Each curve

        and joint

        Clear, and bold, and thin.

        Such was Herr Theodore's violin.

        Seven o'clock, the Concert-Meister gone

        With his best violin, the rain being stopped,

        Frau Lotta in the kitchen sat alone

        Watching the embers which the fire dropped.

        The china shone upon the dresser, topped

        By polished copper vessels which her skill

        Kept brightly burnished. It was very still.

        An air from `Orfeo' hummed in her head.

        Herr Altgelt had been practising before

        The night's performance. Charlotta had plead

        With him to stay with her. Even at the door

        She'd begged him not to go. "I do implore

        You for this evening, Theodore," she had said.

        "Leave them to-night, and stay with me instead."

        "A silly poppet!" Theodore pinched her

        ear.

        "You'd like to have our good Elector turn

        Me out I think." "But, Theodore, something queer

        Ails me. Oh, do but notice how they burn,

        My cheeks! The thunder worried me. You're

        stern,

        And cold, and only love your work, I know.

        But Theodore, for this evening, do not go."

        But he had gone, hurriedly at the end,

        For she had kept him talking. Now she sat

        Alone again, always alone, the trend

        Of all her thinking brought her back to that

        She wished to banish. What would life be? What?

        For she was young, and loved, while he was moved

        Only by music. Each day that was proved.

        Each day he rose and practised. While

        he played,

        She stopped her work and listened, and her heart

        Swelled painfully beneath her bodice. Swayed

        And longing, she would hide from him her smart.

        "Well, Lottchen, will that do?" Then what a start

        She gave, and she would run to him and cry,

        And he would gently chide her, "Fie, Dear, fie.

        I'm glad I played it well. But such

        a taking!

        You'll hear the thing enough before I've done."

        And she would draw away from him, still shaking.

        Had he but guessed she was another one,

        Another violin. Her strings were aching,

        Stretched to the touch of his bow hand, again

        He played and she almost broke at the strain.

        Where was the use of thinking of it now,

        Sitting alone and listening to the clock!

        She'd best make haste and knit another row.

        Three hours at least must pass before his knock

        Would startle her. It always was a shock.

        She listened -- listened -- for so long before,

        That when it came her hearing almost tore.

        She caught herself just starting in to listen.

        What nerves she had: rattling like brittle sticks!

        She wandered to the window, for the glisten

        Of a bright moon was tempting. Snuffed the wicks

        Of her two candles. Still she could not fix

        To anything. The moon in a broad swath

        Beckoned her out and down the garden-path.

        Against the house, her hollyhocks stood high

        And black, their shadows doubling them. The night

        Was white and still with moonlight, and a sigh

        Of blowing leaves was there, and the dim flight

        Of insects, and the smell of aconite,

        And stocks, and Marvel of Peru. She flitted

        Along the path, where blocks of shadow pitted

        The even flags. She let herself go dreaming

        Of Theodore her husband, and the tune

        From `Orfeo' swam through her mind, but seeming

        Changed -- shriller. Of a sudden, the clear moon

        Showed her a passer-by, inopportune

        Indeed, but here he was, whistling and striding.

        Lotta squeezed in between the currants, hiding.

        "The best laid plans of mice and men," alas!

        The stranger came indeed, but did not pass.

        Instead, he leant upon the garden-gate,

        Folding his arms and whistling. Lotta's state,

        Crouched in the prickly currants, on wet grass,

        Was far from pleasant. Still the stranger stayed,

        And Lotta in her currants watched, dismayed.

        He seemed a proper fellow standing there

        In the bright moonshine. His cocked hat was laced

        With silver, and he wore his own brown hair

        Tied, but unpowdered. His whole bearing graced

        A fine cloth coat, and ruffled shirt, and chased

        Sword-hilt. Charlotta looked, but her position

        Was hardly easy. When would his volition

        Suggest his walking on? And then that

        tune!

        A half-a-dozen bars from `Orfeo'

        Gone over and over, and murdered. What Fortune

        Had brought him there to stare about him so?

        "Ach, Gott im Himmel! Why will he not go!"

        Thought Lotta, but the young man whistled on,

        And seemed in no great hurry to be gone.

        Charlotta, crouched among the currant bushes,

        Watched the moon slowly dip from twig to twig.

        If Theodore should chance to come, and blushes

        Streamed over her. He would not care a fig,

        He'd only laugh. She pushed aside a sprig

        Of sharp-edged leaves and peered, then she uprose

        Amid her bushes. "Sir," said she, "pray whose

        Garden do you suppose you're watching? Why

        Do you stand there? I really must insist

        Upon your leaving. 'Tis unmannerly

        To stay so long." The young man gave a twist

        And turned about, and in the amethyst

        Moonlight he saw her like a nymph half-risen

        From the green bushes which had been her prison.

        He swept his hat off in a hurried bow.

        "Your pardon, Madam, I had no idea

        I was not quite alone, and that is how

        I came to stay. My trespass was not sheer

        Impertinence. I thought no one was here,

        And really gardens cry to be admired.

        To-night especially it seemed required.

        And may I beg to introduce myself?

        Heinrich Marohl of Munich. And your name?"

        Charlotta told him. And the artful elf

        Promptly exclaimed about her husband's fame.

        So Lotta, half-unwilling, slowly came

        To conversation with him. When she went

        Into the house, she found the evening spent.

        Theodore arrived quite wearied out and teased,

        With all excitement in him burned away.

        It had gone well, he said, the audience pleased,

        And he had played his very best to-day,

        But afterwards he had been forced to stay

        And practise with the stupid ones. His head

        Ached furiously, and he must get to bed.

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