讀：格蘭切斯特的老莊房

初春的早晨、乍暖還寒，鳥鳴鈴響，聽得見的風聲。又閑步“格蘭切斯特的老莊房”的字裏行間，一片五月原野般的晨光 。。。

“格蘭切斯特” 已是漫紗之夢 — 滿園舞紅吹白盛溢芬芳，田園牧場長草綠蔭，蜿蜒一條靈性的河。

“老莊房“ 又加逍遙之情 — 夕陽散漫西沉下，慵懶黃昏星升起。寵辱不驚的超然，沉靜一切的哲境。

展卷亦是青香，和茶綠甘苦，同酩，不亦夢乎。


* 起筆就落在那裏的風光：自然和大地

蘆哨風中輕吟， 落上鹿眠處，更怯一驚。
閑臥綠叢觀雲癡，任天光泛盈，直到迷蒙洪荒。

格蘭切斯特啊，風光，就在格蘭切斯特的天上


*撐一竿長篙，向青草更青處漫朔：康河

月色沁涼透亮，風聲輕狂。水盡風流波盡嬌，魅影蕩漾。
晨光漸入幽徑，赤腳途歸，牧歌野唱。

怎樣的一種優哉悠哉，月夜裸泳，赤腳散步，果蜜為食，獨舟往返。我原以為徐誌摩的劍橋已是尋夢的田園。


* 與野風同遊，綠水同雅，除了果青柳垂蟬鳴鳥歌，最美還在：其人。

凝眸白蓮花啟，童笑夢柔雲開。
清醒貴氣俱還我，半酣詩醉長笛。雅集高思豁論，不與凡間比。

格蘭切斯特啊，到底有多少驕子智者，引後人不遠萬裏到此呷一口熱茶。


* 教堂的鍾是不是還停在差十分三點? 喝茶時加的蜂蜜還有嗎?

水味風咽晨羞澀，枝椏篩月暮色驚。依然清涼甘甜 ，還有什麽美麗？
勿能忘，亦難忘，夢魂飛不到，時空都靜。

反反複複，徘徘徊徊。我想背下這裏太多的美麗。格蘭切斯特的天，康河，和那個年輕的詩人再也不會忘記。也許不用等到明年，我撐一支長篙，慢慢悠進林蔭深處的蘋果茶園。。。

餘曰：好夢！

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附：格蘭切斯特的老莊房---儒泊特。布魯克--（翻譯） - by 伍子涵

 
 

此時此刻 我舊時的小屋前
丁香正在盛放 --
我想
花圃裏，石竹和康乃馨綻開笑容
籬邊的罌粟和三色槿
齊齊，吐露芬芳
哦，河邊的栗樹搭起夏日的帳幕
綠蔭如沉睡的巷道
寂寂，進入夢鄉
那一彎清流謎一般悄悄滑過
綠的象幔紗之夢
深邃有如死亡
哦，還有那
五月的原野一片金黃
我如何能不裸裎了雙腳向你飛奔
當白晝依然年輕甜美，
燦爛地 給它們鍍上金色的光芒
 
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仁慈的上帝啊！
我在這個鬼地方
窒熱、病懨、汗流如漿
鬧哄哄的德國猶太佬端著啤酒四處遊蕩
盡管鬱金香在雜草叢生的籬下應時而開
甚至，還有一枝英格蘭的野玫瑰攀出圍欄
楚楚輕颺
卻怎比我的格蘭切斯特：
濃蔭下的河水多麽清涼
多想撩一捧
潑在赤裸的身上
清晨的露珠如此溫柔
在金色的早霞中晶瑩閃亮
還有優遊自在的斜陽散漫西沉，
喚醒忠實的晚星
朦朧地，掛在天上
哦，還有 通向柯頓和海斯林菲爾德的牧場
任我徜徉

  >
嗬，我向往
格蘭切斯特啊，我的格蘭切斯特
假若在你身旁
便能，摩撫你的綠野、大地
以及所有自然的歡暢
你看，綠叢中幼鹿的那一瞥
怯生生，多麽溫馴又驚慌
令博學的今人悠然思古、心馳神往
依稀，戴水草頭冠的淩波仙子
翩翩，在水一方
彼得。潘幽幽地吹響蘆哨，婉轉悠揚
你可以一整天躺在草地上
看天光流逝
任日影西斜
聽清風回繞
還有多情的花兒悄悄
在微醺的草叢中，吟唱
直到暮色四合，
糅合了歲月
迷蒙了洪荒
在格蘭切斯特，啊！ 就在格蘭切斯特的天空上

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哦，還有晨曦下的池塘
幽幽閃光
飄忽如魅影的拜倫爵士 泳姿如此洗暢
身手如同橫渡斯蒂克斯
暢遊廣闊的海峽--赫勒斯龐
一如他行雲流水的文章
還有-- 喬叟正諦聽流水喁喁
水車如幻影孓立
騰尼遜注目沉吟
逝者如斯，康河為何輕狂？
而在夜之明暗的花園裏
青草竊竊私語，直到天光
哦，當東方欲曉，鬼魂起舞
樂，夜之未央
無數神甫們掠過草坪
久歸塵土的修士們躡手躡腳輕如飛鴻，
來去無蹤
清臒的主教孤獨的影子
隱約在枝葉的那廂
待得日曉九天顫栗
撒旦的狂笑漸漸，消失了音響
死板的神甫也不知所措
唯有露宿的未歸人，滿臉驚慌
鉛灰的天空
傳來第一聲困倦的鳥鳴
搖搖欲墜的房子，依然佇立地上

> 
嗬，上天！我多想
背起行囊 登上火車
即刻回到英格蘭，
我的家鄉那是何等的土地
胸懷美好的人們，對它無不向往！
當然我更想
回到劍橋鄉下，
一個智者的樂土 更
有我鍾愛的格蘭切斯特
嗬，那個可愛的小村莊
不像劍橋街上：
君子不苟言笑
城裏人趾高氣揚
腦滿腸肥、裝模作樣
也不象南邊的羅伊斯頓人
黧黑、暴烈、不知所雲
或者象在奧佛，
動不動賭咒發誓
可他們還不如特朗平敦人
發誓，就和放屁一樣！

迪頓的姑娘粗野放蕩
哈斯頓找不到三十以下的女郎
謝爾福特的那些人都是變態彎彎繞
巴頓人說話一口土腔
柯頓多的是小偷小摸
馬丁利人幹的事兒難以想象
大年三十他們愣要跑十裏八裏
櫻桃穀的懶漢笑聲響
唉，你說這事荒不荒唐！
男人們急赤白臉，
抬手給老婆一槍
也不送去聖伊夫斯
唉，這些個寶貝-- 等到聽說巴巴拉漢那旮瘩的事
嚎啕大哭比嬰孩還響
怎比我，哦，我的格蘭切斯特
寧靜平和如天堂
哦，格蘭切斯特啊，我的格蘭切斯特
大風起兮雲飛揚
直如雲帆濟海洋
兒童柔美如夢幻
男男女女都端莊
密林沉沉入夢境
微風窸窸最有情
千回百轉待天曉
猶半清醒半夢酣
哦，格蘭切斯特啊，格蘭切斯特人
他們皮膚多白皙
日間沐浴夜濯洗
男人從道循天理
女子安分守規矩
愛美德，愛真理
笑時朗聲，猶勝翩翩少年郎
（若覺年邁，我獲知 起而自戕不彷徨！）

 

哦，上天！
當你看到支離的樹枝
淩亂了格蘭切斯特的月亮
當你嗅著那甜膩而靡腐的河水--
它，如此讓人欣喜若狂、永生不忘
當你聽到微風在樹叢間嗚咽
你，怎能不思量？
哦，傲然矗立的榆樹樁
是否依然在守護那塊神聖的土地？
栗樹的濃蔭在旖旎的夢裏
是不是正在蔭護那條小河，將天光遮擋？
黎明的晨曦有沒有攜一個沁涼的秘密
象素裹金飾的阿弗洛蒂黛
羞澀地，東躲西藏？
從海斯林菲爾德到馬丁利，
夕陽 是不是還象從前，
染一片金色的海洋？
夜幕低垂，
野兔們還會不會出來 找玉米棒？
哦，還有那個池塘
水，是否依舊溫柔涼爽？
不息的河流，
有沒有在水車下 依然笑語飛揚？
哦，讓我再想想--
還有什麽美麗尚待我去發現?
那種確實無疑的美，含蓄而不張揚？
比如深廣的原野，讓人憂思皆忘
無論謊言、真實、痛苦、還是彷徨？
哦，怎能不想，怎能忘
教堂頂上的鍾正指向兩點五十
夜靜更深，還能不能找到蜂蜜調茶 供我一觴？
 
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The Old Vicarage, Grantchester (Café des Westens, Berlin, May 1912)
by Rupert Brooke (1887-1915)

Just now the lilac is in bloom,
All before my little room;
And in my flower-beds, I think,
Smile the carnation and the pink;
And down the borders, well I know,
The poppy and the pansy blow . . .
Oh! there the chestnuts, summer through,
Beside the river make for you
A tunnel of green gloom, and sleep
Deeply above; and green and deep
The stream mysterious glides beneath,
Green as a dream and deep as death.
---Oh, damn! I know it! and I know
How the May fields all golden show,
And when the day is young and sweet,
Gild gloriously the bare feet
That run to bathe . . . Du lieber Gott!

Here am I, sweating, sick, and hot,
And there the shadowed waters fresh
Lean up to embrace the naked flesh.
Temperamentvoll German Jews
Drink beer around;---and there the dews
Are soft beneath a morn of gold.
Here tulips bloom as they are told;
Unkempt about those hedges blows
An English unofficial rose;
And there the unregulated sun
Slopes down to rest when day is done,
And wakes a vague unpunctual star,
A slippered Hesper; and there are
Meads towards Haslingfield and Coton
Where das Betreten's not verboten.

. . . would I were
In Grantchester, in Grantchester!---
Some, it may be, can get in touch
With Nature there, or Earth, or such.
And clever modern men have seen
A Faun a-peeping through the green,
And felt the Classics were not dead,
To glimpse a Naiad's reedy head,
Or hear the Goat-foot piping low: . . .
But these are things I do not know.
I only know that you may lie
Day long and watch the Cambridge sky,
And, flower-lulled in sleepy grass,
Hear the cool lapse of hours pass,
Until the centuries blend and blur
In Grantchester, in Grantchester. . . .

Still in the dawnlit waters cool
His ghostly Lordship swims his pool,
And tries the strokes, essays the tricks,
Long learnt on Hellespont, or Styx.
Dan Chaucer hears his river still
Chatter beneath a phantom mill.
Tennyson notes, with studious eye,
How Cambridge waters hurry by . . .
And in that garden, black and white,
Creep whispers through the grass all night;
And spectral dance, before the dawn,
A hundred Vicars down the lawn;
Curates, long dust, will come and go
On lissom, clerical, printless toe;
And oft between the boughs is seen
The sly shade of a Rural Dean . . .
Till, at a shiver in the skies,
Vanishing the Satanic cries,
The prim ecclesiastic rout
Leaves but a startled sleeper-out,
Grey heavens, the first bird's drowsy calls,
The falling house that never falls.

God! I will pack, and take a train,
And get me to England once again!
For England's the one land, I know,
Where men with Splendid Hearts may go;
And Cambridgeshire, of all England,
The shire for Men who Understand;
And of that district I prefer
The lovely hamlet Grantchester.
For Cambridge people rarely smile,
Being urban, squat, and packed with guile;
And Royston men in the far South
Are black and fierce and strange of mouth;
At Over they fling oaths at one,
And worse than oaths at Trumpington,

And Ditton girls are mean and dirty,
And there's none in Harston under thirty,
And folks in Shelford and those parts
Have twisted lips and twisted hearts,
And Barton men make Cockney rhymes,
And Coton's full of nameless crimes,
And things are done you'd not believe
At Madingley on Christmas Eve.
Strong men have run for miles and miles,
When one from Cherry Hinton smiles;
Strong men have blanched, and shot their wives,
Rather than send them to St. Ives;
Strong men have cried like babes, bydam,
To hear what happened at Babraham.
But Grantchester! ah, Grantchester!
There's peace and holy quiet there,
Great clouds along pacific skies,
And men and women with straight eyes,
Lithe children lovelier than a dream,
A bosky wood, a slumbrous stream,
And little kindly winds that creep
Round twilight corners, half asleep.
In Grantchester their skins are white;
They bathe by day, they bathe by night;
The women there do all they ought;
The men observe the Rules of Thought.
They love the Good; they worship Truth;
They laugh uproariously in youth;
(And when they get to feeling old,
They up and shoot themselves, I'm told) . . .

Ah God! to see the branches stir
Across the moon at Grantchester!
To smell the thrilling-sweet and rotten
Unforgettable, unforgotten
River-smell, and hear the breeze
Sobbing in the little trees.
Say, do the elm-clumps greatly stand
Still guardians of that holy land?
The chestnuts shade, in reverend dream,
The yet unacademic stream?
Is dawn a secret shy and cold
Anadyomene, silver-gold?
And sunset still a golden sea
From Haslingfield to Madingley?
And after, ere the night is born,
Do hares come out about the corn?
Oh, is the water sweet and cool,
Gentle and brown, above the pool?
And laughs the immortal river still
Under the mill, under the mill?
Say, is there Beauty yet to find?
And Certainty? and Quiet kind?
Deep meadows yet, for to forget
The lies, and truths, and pain? . . . oh! yet
Stands the Church clock at ten to three?
And is there honey still for tea?