شادی
فرزند فقر و محنت
لذت
فرزند مال و مکنت
شادی
دربند
ترانه اش شیرین
لذت
آزاد
ترانه اش غمگین
لذت
چون حشره
روز ها در خواب
شبها چون کرم شبتاب
در دل تاریکی
چراغ می افروزد
و پای می کوبد
شادی، امّا
پروانه ی عاشق
ستایشگر روز
در نورِ هورِ جانسوز
سرود می خواند
و بال می افشاند
شادی
چون زنبور عسل
در کنار غنچه می نشیند
در چشمانش
برق عشق را می بیند
و از لبان شهدآلودش
گل بوسه می چیند
لذت
چون زنبوری حریص
میوه ها را
به اسارت می برد
پوستشان را می درد
و گوشتشان را به غارت می برد
شادی
چکاوکی تنها
دوستانش کم
اما عهد و پیمانش محکم
لذت
فاخته ای سرگردان
آشنایانش بی شمار
اما دوستانش بی مقدار
شادی
می خوانَد
در جمع یاران
بی نگرانی
بی پریشانی
از آنکه بشنید
یا خواندنش دید
لذت، اما
سرد و بی احساس
خندان و رقصان
اما هراسان
از مکر و ریبه
از هر غریبه
Joy and Pleasure
William Henry Davies
Now, joy is born of parents poor,
And pleasure of our richer kind;
Though pleasure's free, she cannot sing
As sweet a song as joy confined.
Pleasure's a Moth, that sleeps by day
And dances by false glare at night;
But Joy's a Butterfly, that loves
To spread its wings in Nature's light.
Joy's like a Bee that gently sucks
Away on blossoms its sweet hour;
But pleasure's like a greedy Wasp,
That plums and cherries would devour.
Joy's like a Lark that lives alone,
Whose ties are very strong, though few;
But Pleasure like a Cuckoo roams,
Makes much acquaintance, no friends true.
Joy from her heart doth sing at home,
With little care if others hear;
But pleasure then is cold and dumb,
And sings and laughs with strangers near.
And pleasure of our richer kind;
Though pleasure's free, she cannot sing
As sweet a song as joy confined.
Pleasure's a Moth, that sleeps by day
And dances by false glare at night;
But Joy's a Butterfly, that loves
To spread its wings in Nature's light.
Joy's like a Bee that gently sucks
Away on blossoms its sweet hour;
But pleasure's like a greedy Wasp,
That plums and cherries would devour.
Joy's like a Lark that lives alone,
Whose ties are very strong, though few;
But Pleasure like a Cuckoo roams,
Makes much acquaintance, no friends true.
Joy from her heart doth sing at home,
With little care if others hear;
But pleasure then is cold and dumb,
And sings and laughs with strangers near.
هیچ نظری موجود نیست:
ارسال یک نظر