隻是因為在人群中多看了你一眼...
三生石上舊精魂,賞月吟風莫要論;慚愧故人遠相訪,此身雖異性長存。
在孤獨的時刻，或者在茫茫人海但是束手無援的孤寂之中，我們於是將愛轉移到愛花，愛草，熱愛淙淙小溪以及碧藍的天空。春天花草的每一個搖動，藍色天際中的每一絲清新，都會在我們心底找到那種神秘的感應。
娓娓動聽在無語的微風中傳送，和諧之曲流淌在山溪的小澗，飄蕩在樹葉婆娑之中，喚醒著靈魂中那一點點的律動，那即將在沉睡中爆發出來的令人狂喜之舞和無法抑製的激情；它給妳的明眸帶了無可解釋的溫柔和濕潤，就如愛國者勝利的喜悅，就如親密愛人在妳耳邊獨唱著愛的溫馨。。。。
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你垂詢什麽是愛嗎？當我們在自身思想的幽穀中發現一片虛空，從而在天地萬物中呼喚、尋求與身內之物的通感對應之時，受到我們所感、所懼、所企望的事物的那種情不自禁的、強有力的吸引，這就是愛。
倘使我們推理，我們總希望能夠被人理解；
倘使我們遐想，我們總希望自己頭腦中逍遙自在的孩童會在別人的頭腦裏獲得新生；
倘若我們感受，那麽，我們祈求他人的神經能和我們一起共振，他人的目光和我們交融，他人的眼睛和我們的一樣炯炯有神；
我們祈願漠然麻木的冰唇不要對另一顆火熱的心譏笑嘲諷。這就是愛。
我們降臨世間，我們的內心深處存在著某種東西，自有自我存在的那一顆起，就渴求著與它相似的東西。這種與生俱來的傾向隨著天性的發展而發展。
在思維能力的本性中，我們隱隱約約地看到的仿佛是完整自我的一個縮影，它喪失了我們所蔑視、嫌厭的成分，而成為盡善盡美的人形的理想典範。它不僅是一幀外在肖像，更是構成我們天性的最精細微小的粒子組合。它是一麵隻映射出純潔和明亮形態的鏡子；它是在其靈魂固有的樂園外勾畫出一個為痛苦、悲哀和邪惡所無法逾越的圓圈的靈魂。這以精魂同樣渴求與之相像或對應的知覺相關聯。
當我們在大千世界中尋覓到了靈魂的對應物，在天地萬物中發現了可以無誤地評估我們自身的知音（它能準確地、敏感地捕捉我們所珍惜並懷著喜悅悄悄展露的一切），那麽，我們與對應物就好比兩架精美的豎琴上的琴弦，在一個快樂的聲音伴奏下發出音響，這音響與我們自身神經組織的震顫相共振。這——就是愛所要到達的無形的、不可企及的目標。正是它，驅使人的力量去捕捉其淡淡的影子；沒有它，為愛所駕權的心靈就永遠不會歇息......
因此，在孤獨中，或處在一群毫不理解我們的人群中（這時，我們仿佛遭到遺棄），我們會熱愛花草、小草、河流以及天空。就在藍天下，在春天樹葉的顫動中，我們找到神秘的心靈的回應：
無語的風中有一種雄辯；流淌的溪水和河邊瑟瑟的葦葉聲中，有一首歌謠。它們與我們靈魂之間神秘的感應，喚醒了我們心中的精靈去跳一場酣暢淋漓的狂喜之舞，並使神秘的溫柔的淚盈滿我們的眼睛，如愛國誌士勝利的熱情，又如心愛的人為你獨自歌唱之音。
因此，斯泰恩說，假如他身在沙漠，他會愛上柏樹枝的。愛的需求或力量一旦死去，人就成為一個活著的墓穴，苟延殘喘的隻是一副軀殼。
ON LOVE.
By Percy Bysshe Shelley
WHAT is Love? Ask him who lives, what is life; ask him who adores, what is God?
I know not the internal constitution of other men, nor even thine, whom I now address. I see that in some external attributes they resemble me, but when, misled by that appearance, I have thought to appeal to something in common, and unburthen my inmost soul to them, I have found my language misunderstood, like one in a distant and savage land. The more opportunities they have afforded me for experience, the wider has appeared the interval between us, and to a greater distance have the points of sympathy been withdrawn. With a spirit ill fitted to sustain such proof, trembling and feeble through its tenderness, I have everywhere sought sympathy, and have found only repulse and disappointment.
Thou demandest what is Love. It is that powerful attraction towards all we conceive, or fear, or hope beyond ourselves, when we find within our own thoughts the chasm of an insufficient void, and seek to awaken in all things that are, a community with what we experience within ourselves. If we reason, we would be understood; if we imagine, we would that the airy children of our brain were born anew within another's; if we feel, we would that another's nerves should vibrate to our own, that the beams of their eyes should kindle at once and mix and melt into our own; that lips of motionless ice should not reply to lips quivering and burning with the heart's best blood. This is Love. This is the bond and the sanction which connects not only man with man, but with every thing which exists. We are born into the world, and there is something within us which, from the instant that we live, more and more thirsts after its likeness. It is probably in correspondence with this law that the infant drains milk from the bosom of its mother; this propensity developes itself with the developement of our nature. We dimly see within our intellectual nature a miniature as it were of our entire self, yet deprived of all that we condemn or despise, the ideal prototype of every thing excellent and lovely that we are capable of conceiving as belonging to the nature of man. Not only the portrait of our external being, but an assemblage of the minutest particles of which our nature is composed;* a mirror whose surface reflects only the forms of purity and brightness; a soul within our own soul that describes a circle around its proper Paradise, which pain and sorrow and evil dare not overleap. To this we eagerly refer all sensations, thirsting that they should resemble or correspond with it. The discovery of its antitype; the meeting with an understanding capable of clearly estimating our own; an imagination which should enter into and seize upon the subtle and delicate peculiarities which we have delighted to cherish and unfold in secret; with a frame whose nerves, like the chords of two exquisite lyres, strung to the accompaniment of one delightful voice, vibrate with the vibrations of our own; and of a combination of all these in such proportion as the type within demands; this is the invisible and unattainable point to which Love tends; and to attain which, it urges forth the powers of man to arrest the faintest shadow of that, without the possession of which there is no rest nor respite to the heart over which it rules. Hence in solitude, or in that deserted state when we are surrounded by human beings, and yet they sympathize not with us, we love the flowers, the grass, the waters, and the sky. In the motion of the very leaves of spring, in the blue air, there is then found a secret correspondence with our heart. There is eloquence in the tongueless wind, and a melody in the flowing brooks and the rustling of the reeds beside them, which by their inconceivable relation to something within the soul, awaken the spirits to a dance of breathless rapture, and bring tears of mysterious tenderness to the eyes, like the enthusiasm of patriotic success, or the voice of one beloved singing to you alone. Sterne says that if he were in a desert he would love some cypress. So soon as this want or power is dead, man becomes the living sepulchre of himself, and what yet survives is the mere husk of what once he was.
Forman's Editorial Preface: Mrs. Shelley (Essays &c., 1840, Vol. I, page x) seems to regard this brief effusion on Love as in a manner cognate with Shelley's Platonic labours. It seems improbable however that it belongs to so late a period of his activity. The style appears to me rather that of 1815, or even earlier, than that of 1818; and Mr. Rossetti is probably not far wrong in assigning it to 1815. Instead, therefore, of placing it after the Banquet, it appears to me better to place it after the fragment on Life. It was issued as long ago as 1829, in The Keepsake, edited by Frederic Mansel Reynolds, which contained three poetic fragments by Shelley (Summer and Winter, The Tower of Famine, and The Aziola). For these four compositions, the Editor expresses in his Preface his indebtedness "to the kindness of the author of Frankenstein"; and Mrs. Shelley was also a contributor on her own account to this annual. Mrs. Shelley excepts from the censure of inaccuracy an "Essay on Love," published by Medwin. The follwoing effusion, I have not found in The Athenæum or in The Shelley Papers; and the little Reflection on Love that is to be found in both can hardly be alluded to, because Mrs. Shelley's text of it varies from Medwin's. It is possible that, in the multiplicity of details to be dealt with, the distinction between a cutting from The Keepsake and a series of cuttings from The Athenæum or The Shelley Papers escaped notice.—H.B.F.
NOTES
even thine: In The Keepsake we read even of thine for even thine.
sympathy: This word is omitted in The Keepsake.
and: So in The Keepsake; in the Essays &c., or.
*: These words are ineffectual and metaphorical. Most words are so—No help! [Shelley's Note]
our own soul: In The Keepsake we read our own soul; in the Essays &c., our soul. As a prose expression the earlier reading seems more probable than the latter, which, however, corresponds more closely with the expression in Epipsychidion (line 455), a soul within the soul.
or: In The Keepsake we read and instead of or.
rules: The whole line of thought here and in the following sentence corresponds with the line of thought in Alastor, one would say, rather than with Shelley's studies and writings of 1818.
wind: Cf. Epipsychidion:
I questioned every tongueless wind that flew
Over my tower of mourning, if it knew
Whither 'twas fled, this soul out of my soul;
there is much in Epipsychidion that is reminiscent of Alastor and of the phase of Shelley's existence which produced that earlier poem.
Perhaps Love http://c.mms.blog.xuite.net/c/0/3/b/15579319/blog_442728/dv/7915500/7915500.mp3
古聖先賢的話語就是不同--想想那時候可沒有什麽google啊。。。所以每每翻起書來，看到歡喜處，能不拍案叫絕，彈冠相慶？
jerryus--同意妳的話。。。
愛情就是那個讓妳覺得生命中突然一切都那麽美好的媒介， 那個讓人心醉，讓所有感官都調到最靈敏的狀態的東西--愛情，可不是鑽石！（看新寫的Blood Diamond）
信達雅是老兄所要求的，何不卷起袖子來共襄盛舉？
毅兄，“有才”好像現在是貶意吧。。。
蘿莉亞，這首的確是好歌。。。
北鶴兄果然獨具慧眼，佩服啊!!!
聽著"Perhaps Love"，讀著" On Love by Shelley"撫平了多少歲月的傷痕。。。吾道不孤，我相信生活總是美好的!!
Here is the song from the Three Tenors, Perhaps Love
Perhaps love is like a resting place
A shelter from the storm
It exists to give you comfort
It is there to keep you warm
And in those times of trouble
When you are most alone
The memory of love will bring you home
Perhaps love is like a window
Perhaps an open door
It invites you to come closer
It wants to show you more
And even if you lose yourself
And don’t know what to do
The memory of love will see you through
Oh, love to some is like a cloud
To some as strong as steel
For some a way of living
For some a way to feel
And some say is holding on
And some say letting go
And some say love is everything
And some say they don’t know
Perhaps love is like the ocean
Full of conflict, full of change
Like a fire when it’s cold outside
Or thunder when it rains
If I should live forever
And all my dreams come true
My memories of love will be of you
Let me think of John Denver's song......could I share his song with all of you? ^_^ ( Perhaps Love )
-- 寫得很美。是你翻譯的嗎？這是上乘的譯作。