(清) 曹雪芹
花謝花飛飛滿天，紅綃香斷有誰憐？
游絲軟系飄春榭，落絮輕沾撲繡簾。
閨中女兒惜春暮，愁緒滿懷無處訴。
手把花鋤出繡簾，忍踏落花來復(fù)去。
柳絲榆莢自芳菲，不管桃飄與李飛。
桃李明年能再發(fā)，明歲閨中知是誰？
三月香巢初壘成，梁間燕子太無情！
明年花發(fā)雖可啄，卻不道人去梁空巢也傾！
一年三百六十日，風(fēng)刀霜?jiǎng)?yán)相逼。
明媚鮮妍能幾時(shí)，一朝飄泊難尋覓。
花開易見落難尋，階前愁殺葬花人。
獨(dú)把花鋤偷灑淚，灑上空枝見血痕。
杜鵑無語正黃昏，荷鋤歸去掩重門。
青燈照壁人初睡，冷雨敲窗被未溫。
怪儂底事倍傷神，半為憐春半惱春。
憐春忽至惱忽去，至又無語去不聞。
昨宵庭外悲歌奏，知是花魂與鳥魂？
花魂鳥魂總難留，鳥自無語花自羞。
愿儂此日生雙翼，隨花飛到天盡頭。
天盡頭！何處有香丘？
未若錦囊收艷骨，一杯凈土掩風(fēng)流。
質(zhì)本潔來還潔去，強(qiáng)于污淖陷渠溝。
爾今死去儂收葬，未卜儂身何日喪？
儂今葬花人笑癡，他年葬儂知是誰？
試看春殘花漸落，便是紅顏老死時(shí)。
一朝春盡紅顏老，花落人亡兩不知！
Song of the Burial of Flowers
Cao Xueqin [Qing Dynasty]
Flowers fade and fall and fly about up in the sky,
But who pities the loss of your fragrance when you die?
Like gossamer you float and land on pavilions,
With your fallen petals clung soft to fine curtains.
In my boudoir I sigh over the close of spring,
But there’s no way to express my sorrowful feeling.
Spade in hand, I go out from under my fine curtain,
To and fro on fallen petals, how can I bear treading?
Willow twigs and elm buds send sweet scents as they may,
Who cares when peach and plum petals are in decay?
Next year peach and plum trees will be in bloom again,
But who will be the master of my boudoir then?
In March lunar swallows have got their nests ready,
They on the beam seem to be those without mercy.
Next year in their flight, fresh flowers they may peck, though,
All that they and I have will be lost, they never know.
There are three hundred and sixty days in one year,
With you the elements of nature are severe.
Time is not long for you to be bright and charming,
Your trace and track are hard to find in your drifting.
You are easy to see when open but hard when fallen,
Before the stairs I am worried where to find your remains.
Against the spade I lean and in secret weep sudden,
Splashed on your bare branches are my tears like bloodstains.
The cuckoo ceases its warbling at twilight,
With my spade I return and shut the doors tight.
I go to bed with a lone oil lamp still shining,
My quilt is not warm when a cold rain is falling.
I feel at heart it is a matter quite nerve-racking,
For I like spring or I feel sad over its leaving.
Spring I love and my sorrow repair at a fast pace,
They come silent and go without leaving a trace.
Last night beyond pavilions sad song seemed rising,
Was it the souls of flowers or birds that were singing?
It is always hard to ask their souls to stay behind,
That birds are silent and flowers feel ashamed, I find.
I wish to have two wings under my arms to fly,
After you unto the farthest end of the sky.
At the farthest end of the sky,
Where can I find the grave of your fragrance lie?
Better in silk to shroud your petals fair,
With a handful of clean earth as your attire.
For pure you have come and pure you repair,
Lest you fall into some foul ditch or mire.
I hold a burial when you die today,
But there’s no telling when I pass away.
Others laugh at me that have buried thee,
Who will be the one that shall bury me?
At the farthest end of the sky,
Where can I find the grave of my fragrance lie?
The end of spring makes flowers fall one by one,
It’s also the time when beauty meets its doom.
Once beauty is carried to its very tomb,
Both beauty and flowers perish known to none.
花謝花飛飛滿天，紅綃香斷有誰憐？
游絲軟系飄春榭，落絮輕沾撲繡簾。
閨中女兒惜春暮，愁緒滿懷無處訴。
手把花鋤出繡簾，忍踏落花來復(fù)去。
柳絲榆莢自芳菲，不管桃飄與李飛。
桃李明年能再發(fā)，明歲閨中知是誰？
三月香巢初壘成，梁間燕子太無情！
明年花發(fā)雖可啄，卻不道人去梁空巢也傾！
一年三百六十日，風(fēng)刀霜?jiǎng)?yán)相逼。
明媚鮮妍能幾時(shí)，一朝飄泊難尋覓。
花開易見落難尋，階前愁殺葬花人。
獨(dú)把花鋤偷灑淚，灑上空枝見血痕。
杜鵑無語正黃昏，荷鋤歸去掩重門。
青燈照壁人初睡，冷雨敲窗被未溫。
怪儂底事倍傷神，半為憐春半惱春。
憐春忽至惱忽去，至又無語去不聞。
昨宵庭外悲歌奏，知是花魂與鳥魂？
花魂鳥魂總難留，鳥自無語花自羞。
愿儂此日生雙翼，隨花飛到天盡頭。
天盡頭！何處有香丘？
未若錦囊收艷骨，一杯凈土掩風(fēng)流。
質(zhì)本潔來還潔去，強(qiáng)于污淖陷渠溝。
爾今死去儂收葬，未卜儂身何日喪？
儂今葬花人笑癡，他年葬儂知是誰？
試看春殘花漸落，便是紅顏老死時(shí)。
一朝春盡紅顏老，花落人亡兩不知！
Song of the Burial of Flowers
Cao Xueqin [Qing Dynasty]
Flowers fade and fall and fly about up in the sky,
But who pities the loss of your fragrance when you die?
Like gossamer you float and land on pavilions,
With your fallen petals clung soft to fine curtains.
In my boudoir I sigh over the close of spring,
But there’s no way to express my sorrowful feeling.
Spade in hand, I go out from under my fine curtain,
To and fro on fallen petals, how can I bear treading?
Willow twigs and elm buds send sweet scents as they may,
Who cares when peach and plum petals are in decay?
Next year peach and plum trees will be in bloom again,
But who will be the master of my boudoir then?
In March lunar swallows have got their nests ready,
They on the beam seem to be those without mercy.
Next year in their flight, fresh flowers they may peck, though,
All that they and I have will be lost, they never know.
There are three hundred and sixty days in one year,
With you the elements of nature are severe.
Time is not long for you to be bright and charming,
Your trace and track are hard to find in your drifting.
You are easy to see when open but hard when fallen,
Before the stairs I am worried where to find your remains.
Against the spade I lean and in secret weep sudden,
Splashed on your bare branches are my tears like bloodstains.
The cuckoo ceases its warbling at twilight,
With my spade I return and shut the doors tight.
I go to bed with a lone oil lamp still shining,
My quilt is not warm when a cold rain is falling.
I feel at heart it is a matter quite nerve-racking,
For I like spring or I feel sad over its leaving.
Spring I love and my sorrow repair at a fast pace,
They come silent and go without leaving a trace.
Last night beyond pavilions sad song seemed rising,
Was it the souls of flowers or birds that were singing?
It is always hard to ask their souls to stay behind,
That birds are silent and flowers feel ashamed, I find.
I wish to have two wings under my arms to fly,
After you unto the farthest end of the sky.
At the farthest end of the sky,
Where can I find the grave of your fragrance lie?
Better in silk to shroud your petals fair,
With a handful of clean earth as your attire.
For pure you have come and pure you repair,
Lest you fall into some foul ditch or mire.
I hold a burial when you die today,
But there’s no telling when I pass away.
Others laugh at me that have buried thee,
Who will be the one that shall bury me?
At the farthest end of the sky,
Where can I find the grave of my fragrance lie?
The end of spring makes flowers fall one by one,
It’s also the time when beauty meets its doom.
Once beauty is carried to its very tomb,
Both beauty and flowers perish known to none.