在试着以古文的手法翻译(或说改写更合适吧)了雪莱的《至云雀》和济慈的《夜莺颂》两首长诗以后，彼时我把下一个长诗的翻译/改写目标定在了《西风颂》。然而人总是很懒的，翻一首长诗的时间，大概好多首短的都翻出来了。拿着短的一篇一篇的自己翻来的诗，在手机上看看，就不要太有成就感。于是我同时也很为自己的有所为和有所不为拼命地找别的借口----翻长诗的时候实在是很变态的一件事情----就是这几天到处转的时候，心里不小心就会想起想翻译的诗句来，然后我就会取出手机来读它。如果不小心被旁人看到我在看手机读诗，一定会以为我是个神经病。

把打印出来纸质版背在背包里大概一个多月了，我终于定下神来决心翻译这一首《西风颂》。很莫名其妙，对比《致云雀》和《夜莺颂》，我的直觉就是这首最好翻译为七言。但是我很有信心地预测，将来我一定会重头来读它和修改它。为什么呢？因为前面三节几乎就是给自己交作业，为了追求押韵和把所有的场景描述完全，我翻译得冗长如裹脚布。比如“With living hues and odours plain and hill",为了使用中文古诗的互文，我翻成了貌似对仗的两句。这三节中，很多原文三句的句式，翻成了四句（绝对不是特意翻译为绝句，我没想那么抬高自己的能力）。原因其实很简单，如果照着三句句式我表达不全原文的意思，我就找借口是为了习惯中文的四句诗的句式把它拉长。写东西的人（包括我）一般还有一个恶习，就是自恋。写出来的又长又臭的东西，那每一个字都是亲生的，一个都不能删！（扯一句题外话，成熟的作者，第一条应该学会的写作原则，就是学会自我编辑，大刀阔斧地删自己写的文字。会了这一点，没有莎士比亚和曹雪芹那样天赋的作者们，也能写出成功的好作品来，尤其是写博客的话）让我更为羞愧的是，第二节到第三节，我其实完全没有感觉到那死荫潺潺的恐怖感和西风席卷的威力，边翻边当成自己在欧洲度假，身边有个该疯就疯该醉就醉的陪酒女郎，躺在罗马帝国的度假村贝尔湾里晒太阳了。直到第四节和第五节，我才真正彻底读到了作者直接抒情的感受。尽管有了感受以后，我还是特别想啰嗦。为了和他前面的浪，云和叶子的比兴手法，我就把雪莱大诗人当成浪，叶和云在后面的文字里飞了一遍又一遍----连飞三遍。雪莱大诗人，我实在对不起你，太折腾你的在天之灵了。所以我简单总结下来，这首翻译过来后，就变成了王大娘的裹脚布。希望以后有力气，能力和神志，我会重翻五言，一定要简短些，给雪莱道个歉。  
这里特别需要解释的是我对雪莱的诗的感受。雪莱的长诗或短诗，都非常擅长于通过对自然景观的描写来宣扬一个席卷时空的情绪感染。不同的诗给读者的感触可以是如此的不同。比如读柳永，可以感受到那轻播心弦的细腻情感如水波层层荡漾；比如读艾米莉，可以感受到那精致异常的心灵如珍珠在草地上闪闪发光；而读雪莱，感受到的是一切有为无为的气氛从天而来，从地而兴，他的诗抓住的是读者的每一个毛孔和与之呼吸丝丝相扣的力量。更为可怕的是，他的诗里的氛围，有时候是一次又一次的席卷和感染----我想用一个非常莫名其妙的比喻----就是现代人用的大型洗衣机，请设想把衣服放在一遍又一遍的洗涤循环里面，然后又如同坐过翻滚过山车以后甩干，读者的灵魂该是怎样一个状态！
这篇大部分是在中西部一个乡村游乐场(Silver Dollar City)里玩的时候翻译的。我觉得最好玩的是，在看各种show 的时候，我边听吵得要死的哄哄哈哈敲锣打鼓直冲屋顶的各种音乐，边仰望穿着各样色泽鲜艳的舞台剧服装的俊男靓女，边想象着大海里的海草满布，阴暗森林旁西风席卷，偷偷在手机上打字。在有一个show里面，我家妹妹狠狠地盯我，示意叫我不要玩手机。我其实心知肚明，如果我再玩手机的话，大概我就会成为舞台剧的表演者之一了。演员们可是都时不时地取笑那些玩手机的观众啊。但是，为了冒充高雅而玩手机的我如果能成为群众演员，何乐而不为呢?

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另注：只在和平世界里生活过的我，其实不能理解真正意义上席卷的西风，以及所有赞扬西风颂是对革命风暴的歌颂的评论文章。2022年，战争，通胀，暗杀，还有人关着门自演自唱，这个世界真的开始变得玄幻，但我对西风并不向往。也许暴风雨还会来的更加猛烈，小人物没啥能量，也就今天敲打一下键盘。明天自有明天的打算，让明天自己升起自己的太阳。

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I
O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being,
Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead
Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,

Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,
Pestilence-stricken multitudes: O thou,
Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed

The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low,
Each like a corpse within its grave, until
Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow

Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill
(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)
With living hues and odours plain and hill:

Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere;
Destroyer and preserver; hear, oh hear!

II
Thou on whose stream, mid the steep sky's commotion,
Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed,
Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and Ocean,

Angels of rain and lightning: there are spread
On the blue surface of thine aëry surge,
Like the bright hair uplifted from the head

Of some fierce Maenad, even from the dim verge
Of the horizon to the zenith's height,
The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge

Of the dying year, to which this closing night
Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre,
Vaulted with all thy congregated might

Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere
Black rain, and fire, and hail will burst: oh hear!
III
Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams
The blue Mediterranean, where he lay,
Lull'd by the coil of his crystalline streams,

Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay,
And saw in sleep old palaces and towers
Quivering within the wave's intenser day,

All overgrown with azure moss and flowers
So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou
For whose path the Atlantic's level powers

Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below
The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear
The sapless foliage of the ocean, know

Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear,
And tremble and despoil themselves: oh hear!

IV
If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;
If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;
A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share

The impulse of thy strength, only less free
Than thou, O uncontrollable! If even
I were as in my boyhood, and could be

The comrade of thy wanderings over Heaven,
As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed
Scarce seem'd a vision; I would ne'er have striven

As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.
Oh, lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!
I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!

A heavy weight of hours has chain'd and bow'd
One too like thee: tameless, and swift, and proud.

V
Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is:
What if my leaves are falling like its own!
The tumult of thy mighty harmonies

Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone,
Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce,
My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one!

Drive my dead thoughts over the universe
Like wither'd leaves to quicken a new birth!
And, by the incantation of this verse,

Scatter, as from an unextinguish'd hearth
Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind!
Be through my lips to unawaken'd earth

The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind,
If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?