求泰戈尔一句诗的英文版本
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Thank the flame for its light, but do not forget the lampholder standing in the shade with constancy of patience.
I cannot remember my mother
--by Rabindranath Tagore
I cannot remember my mother
only sometimes in the midst of my play
a tune seems to hover over my playthings,
the tune of some song she used to hum while rocking my cradle.
I cannot remember my mother
but when in the early autumn morning
the smell of the shiuli flowers float in the air
the scent of the morning service in the temple
comes to me as the scent of my my mother.
I cannot remember my mother
only when from my bedroom window I send
into the blue of the distant sky,
I feel the stilness of my mothers gaze on my face
has spread all over the sky.
He asks, your singing meeting the abyss of time?I answer I don't know he can the abyss of time, but whenever I sing, I feel the abyss of time then
上面的翻译就是这样的了
我翻了下泰戈尔的是诗集，找不到全文，不好意思了
只能说SORRY了
楼上的应该是莎士比亚的哈姆雷特里面的吧。第一句 to be or not to be, that is a question.中文翻译就是：是生存还是毁灭，这是一个值得思考的问题。
To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover'd country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.--Soft you now!
The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remember'd.
大人要说出是哪本书才知道
不知道
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