求劳伦斯《鸟啼》的英文原文。 劳伦斯在鸟啼中表达了一种什么样的生活信念
\u6c42\u52b3\u4f26\u65af\u300a\u9e1f\u557c\u300b\u7684\u82f1\u6587\u539f\u6587\u3002\u201cWhistling of Birds\u201d by David Herbert Lawrence is a depiction of the vividness of his writings and his own artistic vision and thought. In this essay he has elucidated the change of seasons- change from winter to spring- in an impressive way by the use of images, similes and metaphors..
Winter, as he narrates, brings woe and causes wreck. The intense frost that sustained for several weeks caused the death of birds. The remnants of the beautiful bevy of birds \u2013 lapwings, starlets, thrushes, lied scattered in the fields. The \u201cinvisible beasts of prey\u201d had wolfed the birds. The winter had massacred the song birds and their blood-soaked skins were spread all around. The beings that could not shield themselves against its rigours shivered with cold and were exposed to the fury of biting cold winds. Winter thus had brought a host of hardships to the poor souls who found it hard to face the vagaries of the weather.
Oh, the long and dreary Winter!
Oh, the cold and cruel Winter!
Then sudden change appeared. The way wind began to blow depicted change of weather. The winds were warm and during the day shimmers sunlight could be seen. The birds began to chirp uncomfortably, without a pause. The doves were uttering strained coos as the influence of winter prevailed on them. Their attitude was queer. It was like a overlapping season. The surroundings were still snow carpeted. They kept on cooing with weakness. The breeze was still chilly enough to hurt.
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Then, quite suddenly, one morning, the change came. The wind went to the south, came off the sea warm and soothing. In the afternoon there were little gleams of sunshine, and the doves began, without interval, slowly and awkwardly to coo. The doves were cooing, though with a laboured sound, as if they were still winter-stunned. Nevertheless, all the afternoon they continued their noise, in the mild air, before the frost had thawed off the road. At evening the wind blew gently, still gathering a bruising quality of frost from the hard earth. Then, in the yellow-gleamy sunset, wild birds began to whistle faintly in the blackthorn thickets of the stream-bottom.
It was startling and almost frightening, after the heavy silence of frost. How could they sing at once, when the ground was thickly strewn with the torn carcasses of birds? Yet out of the evening came the uncertain, silvery sounds that made one’s soul start alert, almost with fear. How could the little silver bugles sound the rally so swiftly, in the soft air, when the earth was yet bound? Yet the birds continued their whistling, rather dimly and brokenly, but throwing the threads of silver, germinating noise into the air.
It was almost a pain to realize, so swiftly, the new world. “Le monde est mort. Vive le monde!” But the birds omitted even the first part of the announcement, their cry was only a faint, blind, fecund “vive!”
There is another world. The winter is gone. There is a new world of spring. The voice of the turtle is heard in the land. But the flesh shrinks from so sudden a transition. Surely the call is premature, while the clods are still frozen, and the ground is littered with the remains of wings! Yet we have no choice. In the bottoms of impenetrable blackthorn, each evening and morning now, out flickers a whistling of birds.
Where does it come from, the song? After so long a cruelty, how can they make it up so quickly? But it bubbles through them, they are like little well-heads, little fountain-heads whence the spring trickles and bubbles forth. It is not of their own doing. In their throats the new life distils itself into sound. It is the rising of the silvery sap of a new summer, gurgling itself forth.
All the time, whilst the earth lay choked and killed and winter-mortified, the deep undersprings were quiet. They only wait for the ponderous encumbrance of the old order to give way, yield in the thaw, and there they are, a silver realm at once. Under the surge of ruin, unmitigated winter, lies the silver potentiality of all blossom. One day the black tide must spend itself and fade back. Then all-suddenly appears the crocus, hovering triumphant in the year, and we know the order has changed, there is a new regime, sound of a new “Vive! Vive!”
It is no use any more to look at the torn remnants of birds that lie exposed. It is no longer any use remembering the sullen thunder of frost and the intolerable pressure of cold upon us. For whether we will or not, they are gone. The choice is not ours. We many remain wintry and destructive for a little longer, if we wish it, but the winter is gone out of us, and willy-nilly our hearts sing a little at sunset.
Even whilst we stare at the ragged horror of birds scattered broadcast, part-eaten, the soft, uneven cooing of the pigeon ripples from the outhouses, and there is a faint silver whistling in the bushes come twilight. No matter, we stand and stare at the torn and unsightly ruins of life, we watch the weary, mutilated columns of winter retreating under our eyes. Yet in our ears are the silver vivid bugles of a new creation advancing on us from behind, we hear the rolling of the soft and happy drums of the doves.
We may not choose the world. We have hardly any choice for ourselves. We follow with our eyes the bloody and horrid line of march of this extreme winter, as it passes away. But we cannot hold back the spring. We cannot make the birds silent, prevent the bubbling of the wood-pigeons. We cannot stay the fine world of silver-fecund creation from gathering itself and taking place upon us. Whether we will or mo, the daphne tree will soon be giving off perfume, the lambs dancing on two feet, the celandines will twinkle all over the ground, there will be new heaven and new earth.
For it is in us, as well as without us. Those who can may follow the columns of winter in their retreat from off the earth. Some of us, we have no choice, the spring is within us, the silver fountain begins to bubble under our breast, there is a gladness in spite of ourselves. And on the instant we accept the gladness! The first day of change, out whistles an unusual, interrupted pean, a fragment that will augment itself imperceptibly. And this in spite of the extreme bitterness of the suffering, in spite of the myriads of torn dead.
Such a long, long winter, and the frost only broke yesterday. Yet it seems, already, we cannot remember it. It is strangely remote, like a far-off darkness. It is as unreal as a dream in the night. This is the morning of reality, when we are ourselves. This is natural and real, the glimmering of a new creation that stirs in us and about us. We know there was winter, long, fearful. We know the earth was strangled and mortified, we know the body of life was torn and scattered broadcast. But what is this retrospective knowledge? It is something extraneous to us, extraneous to this that we are now. and what we are, and what, it seems, we always have been, is this quickening lovely silver plasm of pure creativity. All the mortification and tearing, ah yes, it was upon us, encompassing us. It was like a storm or a mist or a falling from a height. It was entangled upon us, like bats in our hair, driving us mad. But it was never really our innermost self. Within, we were always apart, we were this, this limpid fountain of silver, then quiescent, rising and breaking now into the flowering.
It is strange, the utter in compatibility of death with life. Whilst there is death, life is not to be found. It is all death, one overwhelming flood. And then a new tide rises, and it is all life, a fountain of silvery blissfulness. It is one or the other. We are for life, or we are for death, one or the other, but never in our essence both at once.
Death takes us, and all is a torn redness, passing into darkness. Life rises, and we are faint fine jets of silver running out to blossom. All is incompatible with all. There is the silvery-speckled, incandescent-lovely thrush, whistling pipingly his first song in the blackthorn thicket. How is he to be connected with the bloody, feathered unsightliness of thrush-remnants just outside the bushes? There is no connection. They are not to be referred the one to the other. Where one is, the other is not. In the kingdom of death the silvery song is not. But where there is life, there is no death. No death whatever, only silvery gladness, perfect, the otherworld.
The blackbird cannot stop his song, neither can the pigeon. It takes place in him, even though all his race was yesterday destroyed. He cannot mourn, or be silent, or adhere to the dead. Of the dead he is not, since life has kept him. The dead must bury their dead. Life has now taken hold on him and tossed him into the new ether of a new firmament, where he bursts into song as if he were combustible.
What is the past, those others, now he is tossed clean into the new, across the untranslatable difference?
In his song is heard the first brokenness and uncertainty of the transition. The transit from the grip of death into new being is a death from death, in its sheer metempsychosis a dizzy agony. But only for a second, the moment of trajectory, the passage from one state to the other, from the grip of death to the liberty of newness. In a moment he is in the kingdom of wonder, singing at the center of a new creation.
The bird did not hang back. He did not cling to his death and his dead. There is no death, and the dead have buried their dead. Tossed into the chasm between two worlds, he lifted his wings in dread, and found himself carried on the impulse.
We are lifted to be cast away into the new beginning. Under our hearts the fountain surges, to toss us forth. Who can thwart the impulse that comes upon us? It comes from the unknown upon us, and it behoves us to pass delicately and exquisitely upon the subtle new wind from heaven, conveyed like birds in unreasoning migration from death to life.
译文：
严寒持续了好几个星期，鸟儿很快地死去了。田间与灌木篱下，横陈着田凫、椋鸟、画眉等数不清的腐鸟的血衣，鸟儿的肉已被隐秘的 老饕吃净了。
突然间，一个清晨，变化出现了。风刮到了南方，海上飘来了温暖和慰藉。午后，太阳露出了几星光亮，鸽子开始不间断地缓慢而笨拙地发出咕咕的叫声。这声音显得有些吃力，仿佛还没有从严冬的打击下缓过气来。黄昏时，从河床的蔷薇棘丛中，开始传出野鸟微弱的啼鸣。
当大地还散落着厚厚的一层鸟的尸体的时候，它们怎么会突然歌唱起来？从夜色中浮起的隐约的清越的声音，使人惊讶。当大地仍在束缚中时，那小小的清越之声已经在柔弱的空气中呼唤春天了。它们的啼鸣，虽然含糊，若断若续，却把明快而萌发的声音抛向苍穹。
冬天离去了。一个新的春天的世界。田地间响起斑鸠的叫声。在不能进入的荆棘丛底，每一个夜晚以及每一个早晨，都会闪动出鸟儿的啼鸣。
它从哪儿来呀？那歌声？在这么长的严酷后，鸟儿们怎么会这么快就复生？它活泼，像泉水，从那里，春天慢慢滴落又喷涌而出。新生活在鸟儿们喉中凝成悦耳的声音。它开辟了银色的通道，为着新鲜的春日，一路潺潺而行。
当冬天抑制一切时，深埋着的春天的生机一片沉默，只等着旧秩序沉重的阻碍退去。冰消雪化之后，顷刻间现出银光闪烁的王国。在毁灭一切的冬天巨浪之下，蛰伏着的是宝贵的百花吐艳的潜力。有一天，黑色的浪潮精力耗尽，缓缓后移，番红花就会突然间显现，胜利地摇曳。于是我们知道，规律变了，这是一片新的天地，喊出了崭新的生活！生活！
不必再注视那些暴露四野的破碎的鸟尸，也无须再回忆严寒中沉闷的响雷，以及重压在我们身上的酷冷。冬天走开了，不管怎样，我们的心会放出歌声。
即使当我们凝视那些散落遍地、尸身不整的鸟儿腐烂而可怕的景象时，屋外也会飘来一阵阵鸽子的咕咕声，那从灌木丛中发出的微弱的啼鸣。那些破碎不堪的毁灭了的生命，意味着冬天疲倦而残缺不全的队伍的撤退。我们耳中充塞的，是新生的造物清明而生动的号音，那造物从身后追赶上来，我们听到了鸟儿们发出的轻柔而欢快的隆隆鼓声。
世界不能选择。我们用眼睛跟随极端的严冬那沾满血迹的骇人的行列，直到它走过去。春天不能抑制，任何力量都不能使鸟儿悄然，不能阻止大野鸽的沸腾，不能滞留美好世界中丰饶的创造，它们不可阻挡地振作自己，来到我们身边。无论人们情愿与否，月桂树总要飘出花香，绵羊总要站立舞蹈，白屈菜总要遍地闪烁，那就是新的天堂和新的大地。
那些强者将跟随冬天从大地上隐遁。春天来到我们中间，银色的泉流在心底奔涌，这喜悦，我们禁不住。在这一时刻，我们将这喜悦接受了！变化的时节，啼唱起不平凡的颂歌，这是极度的苦难所禁不住的，是无数残损的死亡所禁不住的。
多么漫长漫长的冬天，冰封昨天才裂开。但看上去，我们已把它全然忘记了。它奇怪地远离了，像远去的黑暗。看上去那么不真实，像长夜的梦。新世界的光芒摇曳在心中，跃动在身边。我们知道过去的是冬天，漫长、恐怖。我们知道大地被窒息、被残害。我们知道生命的肉体被撕裂，零落遍地。所有的毁害和撕裂，啊，是的，过去曾经降临在我们身上，曾经团团围住我们。它像高空中的一阵风暴，一阵浓雾，或一阵倾盆大雨。它缠在我们周身，像蝙蝠绕进我们的头发，逼得我们发疯。但它永远不是我们最深处真正的自我。我们就是这样，是银色晶莹的泉流，先前是安静的，此时却跌宕而起，注入盛开的花朵。
生命和死亡全部不相容。死时，生便不存在，皆是死亡，犹如一场势不可挡的洪水。继而，一股新的浪头涌起，便全是生命，便是银色的极乐的源泉。
死亡攫住了我们，一切残断，沉入黑暗。生命复生，我们便变成水溪下微弱但美丽的喷泉，朝向鲜花奔去。当炽烈而可爱的画眉，在荆棘丛中平静地发出它的第一声啼鸣时，怎能把它和那些在树丛外血肉模糊、羽毛纷乱的残骸联系在一起呢？在死亡的王国里，不会有清越的歌声，正如死亡不能美化生的世界。
鸽子，还有斑鸠、画眉……不能停止它们的歌唱。它们全身心地投入了，尽管同伴昨天遭遇了毁灭。它们不能哀伤，不能静默，不能追随死亡。死去的，就让它死去。现在生命鼓舞着、摇荡着到新的天堂，新的昊天，在那里，它们禁不住放声歌唱，似乎从来就这般炽烈。
从鸟儿们的歌声中，听到了这场变迁的第一阵爆发。在心底，泉流在涌动，激励着我们前行。谁能阻挠到来的生命冲动呢？它从陌生的地方来，降临在我们身上，使我们乘上了从天国吹来的清新柔风，就如向死而生的 鸟儿一样。
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