诗苑｜陆游、唐婉《钗头凤》（两版英译）

南宋爱国诗人陆游受母亲所迫与自己青梅竹马的妻子唐婉分离，怀着对唐婉的思慕与对母亲棒打鸳鸯的不满之情，他写下了一首《钗头凤》。唐婉读后，愁怨难解，于是也和了一首《钗头凤》。下面附上两首《钗头凤》原词及许渊冲、徐忠杰英译本，让我们从词中感受两人的眷恋之深、相思之切。

（朗读者 喜马拉雅用户-柠檬陆陆）

钗头凤·红酥手

[宋] 陆游

红酥手，黄藤酒，满城春色宫墙柳。

东风恶，欢情薄，一怀愁绪，几年离索。

错，错，错。

春如旧，人空瘦，泪痕红浥鲛绡透。

桃花落，闲池阁，山盟犹在，锦书难托。

莫，莫，莫。

TUNE: PHOENIX HAIRPIN

许渊冲 译

Pink hands so fine,

Gold-branded wine,

Spring paints the willows green palace walls can't confine.

East wind unfair,

Happy times rare.

In my heart sad thoughts throng;

We've severed for years long.

Wrong, wrong, wrong!

Spring is as green,

In vain she's lean.

Her kerchief soaked with tears and red with stains unclean.

Peach blossoms fall

Near deserted hall.

Our oath is still there. Lo!

No words to her can go.

No, no, no!

Chaitoufeng

徐忠杰 译

What soft, ruddy hands with a beauty of line,

As they pour for me exquisite vintage wine!

All over town are signs and colors of spring;

Willows along the walls form a festooned string

The dowager lorded o’er our married life;

She killed our happiness as husband and wife.

Since we parted, a good many years have passed

But equally long did profound sorrow last.

Wrong! Wrong! Wrong! Is the course I’ve let run

As heretofore unaltered, spring remain.

Only we have turned thinner but in vain.

A drenched handkerchief,

With red stains, bespeaks --

Profuse tears, running with rouge down

The cheeks,

Our married life was closed by a force supreme,

As peach flowers, into petals, left in a stream.

Though for me, our vow of love for e’er still hold.

How could I write you love-letters as of old?

No! No! No! Such things cannot be done!

钗头凤·世情薄

[宋] 唐婉

世情薄，人情恶，雨送黄昏花易落。

晓风干，泪痕残。欲笺心事，独语斜阑。

难，难，难！

人成各，今非昨，病魂常似秋千索。

角声寒，夜阑珊。怕人寻问，咽泪装欢。

瞒，瞒，瞒！

TUNE: PHOENIX HAIRPIN

许渊冲 译

TUNE: PHOENIX HAIRPIN

The world unfair,

True manhood rare.

Dusk melts away in rain and blooming trees turn bare.

Morning wind high,

Tear traces dry.

I'd write to him what's in my heart;

Leaning on rails, I speak apart.

Hard, hard, hard!

Go each our ways!

Gone are our days.

My sick soul groans like ropes of swing which sways,

The horn blows cold;

Night has grown old.

Afraid my grief may be descried,

I try to hide my tears undried.

Hide, hide, hide!