大家好！今天让小编来大家介绍下关于墓地哀歌 格雷的问题，以下是小编对此问题的归纳整理，让我们一起来看看吧。
文章目录列表:
一、墓地哀歌的 意境?跪求
晚钟送终了这一天，牛羊咻咻然徐度原野，农夫倦步长道回家，仅余我与暮色平分此世界。——格雷(Gray)《墓地哀歌》就这几句的意境
二、谁能找到 格雷 的《墓地哀歌》全诗？
【读过这首诗以后，我觉得我以前的英语白学了】
我的大学英语老师在开学第一课的时候送给我们全班同学一首英文诗作为见面礼，我们整整分析学习了它一整节课。
总所周知，英文诗和中文诗不仅在形式上是不同的，中文古诗有四言八言（绝句、律诗），而英文诗歌更多的是自由自在的长短排列组合，如果你不懂中文，你听人讲你也可以窥见意境，而如果你不懂英语，基本上你是体会不到她的美和力量，这时我们可以借助优秀翻译家的智慧。
全诗如下：
Life
—— By Allan Houston
Life can be good,
Life can be bad,
Life is mostly cheerful,
But sometimes sad.
Life can be dreams,
Life can be great thoughts;
Life can mean a person,
Sitting in court.
Life can be dirty,
Life can even be painful;
But life is what you make it,
So try to make it beautiful.
你试着仔细读它一遍，你会发现太优美，太通顺了！读起来朗朗上口，明明用的是最基础最简单的词汇，good，bad，cheerful，sad就像是中文里面说的对仗工整，有一种美感油然而生。
你每读到一个but，就得到一次升华，声音也不自觉的拔高，生活正正反反，有磨难有幸福，生活的真谛就蕴藏在这首诗里，短短的几十个词汇，却表达出让人思考不断，让人倍受鼓舞的力量！
我们全班人一起读了它三遍，余味无穷，老师把它做为见面礼送给全班同学，果然是一种别出心裁的做法，让我们对英语的认识改变了很多，可以说，没有这趟英语课，英语可能永远都很枯燥乏味。
我们班很多人都把这首诗背了下来，因为它可以一直陪伴我们，告诉我们遇到难题，一定有办法可以度过；当我们迷茫、堕落，它警醒我们生活千变万化，但你是关键；当你出身平凡却心怀梦想，它告诉你，你还有选择，你可以给自己最想要的人生。
译文版如下：
生 活
---兰斯顿 休斯
生活可能美满，
生活可能悲伤，
生活常常充满欢乐，
但有时令人沮丧。
生活可能是梦幻一场，
生活可能是智慧结晶；
生活也可能将一个人
送上被告法庭。
生活可能丑陋，
生活甚至可能痛苦；
但生活是你自己创造，
所以努力创造幸福。
一位优秀的翻译者，可以体会到作者的感受来组织语言进行翻译，每句话都可以翻译出很多种形式和意思，在经过很多次修改和斟酌之后才会定稿呈现在世人面前。这首诗在翻译方面也会给我们打开一扇大门。希望你也喜欢这首诗。
此外推荐关注翻译大家许渊冲，我初中英语老师，高中英语老师大学英语老师都提过他，说到许老时都是满脸的崇敬，许老翻译秉持着“信达雅”和三美原则从事翻译数十年，现在以九十六岁高龄仍热爱翻译事业。许渊冲翻译过很多著名诗篇，大家也可以去关注一下。
（兰斯顿·休斯）
如果你想了解更多，你还可以百度搜索VOA英语网之类的英语网站 ，寻找更多优美并给予人向上力量的诗歌散文！
（备注：《Life》这首诗的作者是兰斯顿·休斯，非常杰出的现代美国黑人诗人，他是一位勤奋而多产的作家，除诗歌外还写剧本、小说、政论，谈论爵士乐、整理黑人民间文学，作品总数在50部以上，而他优秀的诗作大都收进了他自己编选的《休斯诗选》（1965）。到休斯于1967年5月22日逝世时，他已被公认为“哈莱姆的桂冠诗人”）
三、求格雷《墓地哀歌》全诗 钱钟书版
ELEGY WRITTEN INA COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,The lowing herd winds slowly o er the lea,The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,And leaves the world to darkness and to me.Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,And all the air a solemn stillness holds,Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds:Save that from yonder ivy-mantled towerThe moping owl does to the moon complainOf such as, wandering near her secret bower,Molest her ancient solitary reign.Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree s shade,Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap,Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep.The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed,The cock s shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,Or busy housewife ply her evening care:No children run to lisp their sire s return,Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share,Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke;How jocund did they drive their team afield!How bow d the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smileThe short and simple annals of the Poor.The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,And all that beauty, all that wealth e er gave,Awaits alike th inevitable hour:-The paths of glory lead but to the grave.Nor you, ye Proud, impute to these the faultIf Memory o er their tomb no trophies raise,Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vaultThe pealing anthem swells the note of praise.Can storied urn or animated bustBack to its mansion call the fleeting breath?Can Honour s voice provoke the silent dust,Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of Death?Perhaps in this neglected spot is laidSome heart once pregnant with celestial fire;Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway d,Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre:But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page,Rich with the spoils of time, did ne er unroll;Chill Penury repress d their noble rage,And froze the genial current of the soul.Full many a gem of purest ray sereneThe dark unfathom d caves of ocean bear:Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,And waste its sweetness on the desert air.Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breastThe little tyrant of his fields withstood,Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country s blood.Th applause of list ning senates to command,The threats of pain and ruin to despise,To scatter plenty o er a smiling land,And read their history in a nation s eyes,Their lot forbad: nor circumscribed aloneTheir growing virtues, but their crimes confined;Forbad to wade through slaughter to a throne,And shut the gates of mercy on mankind,The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,Or heap the shrine of Luxury and PrideWith incense kindled at the Muse s flame.Far from the madding crowd s ignoble strife,Their sober wishes never learn d to stray;Along the cool sequester d vale of lifeThey kept the noiseless tenour of their way.Yet e en these bones from insult to protectSome frail memorial still erected nigh,With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck d,Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.Their name, their years, spelt by th unletter d Muse,The place of fame and elegy supply:And many a holy text around she strews,That teach the rustic moralist to die.For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,This pleasing anxious being e er resign d,Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,Nor cast one longing lingering look behind?On some fond breast the parting soul relies,Some pious drops the closing eye requires;E en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,E en in our ashes live their wonted fires.For thee, who, mindful of th unhonour d dead,Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;If chance, by lonely contemplation led,Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, --Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawnBrushing with hasty steps the dews away,To meet the sun upon the upland lawn; There at the foot of yonder nodding beechThat wreathes its old fantastic roots so high.His listless length at noontide would he stretch,And pore upon the brook that babbles by. Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove;Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn,Or crazed with care, or cross d in hopeless love. One morn I miss d him on the custom d hill,Along the heath, and near his favourite tree;Another came; nor yet beside the rill,Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he; The next with dirges due in sad arraySlow through the church-way path we saw him borne,-Approach and read (for thou canst read) the layGraved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn. The EpitaphHere rests his head upon the lap of EarthA youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown.Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth,And Melacholy marked him for her own.Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,Heaven did a recompense as largely send:He gave to Misery all he had, a tear,He gained from Heaven ( twas all he wish d) a friend.No farther seek his merits to disclose,Or draw his frailties from their dread abode(There they alike in trembling hope repose),The bosom of his Father and his God.By Thomas Gray (1716-71). 自己翻译吧
四、谁能找到 格雷 的《墓地哀歌》全诗？
ELEGY WRITTEN INA COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,The lowing herd winds slowly o er the lea,The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,And leaves the world to darkness and to me.Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,And all the air a solemn stillness holds,Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds:Save that from yonder ivy-mantled towerThe moping owl does to the moon complainOf such as, wandering near her secret bower,Molest her ancient solitary reign.Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree s shade,Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap,Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep.The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed,The cock s shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,Or busy housewife ply her evening care:No children run to lisp their sire s return,Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share,Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke;How jocund did they drive their team afield!How bow d the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smileThe short and simple annals of the Poor.The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,And all that beauty, all that wealth e er gave,Awaits alike th inevitable hour:-The paths of glory lead but to the grave.Nor you, ye Proud, impute to these the faultIf Memory o er their tomb no trophies raise,Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vaultThe pealing anthem swells the note of praise.Can storied urn or animated bustBack to its mansion call the fleeting breath?Can Honour s voice provoke the silent dust,Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of Death?Perhaps in this neglected spot is laidSome heart once pregnant with celestial fire;Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway d,Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre:But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page,Rich with the spoils of time, did ne er unroll;Chill Penury repress d their noble rage,And froze the genial current of the soul.Full many a gem of purest ray sereneThe dark unfathom d caves of ocean bear:Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,And waste its sweetness on the desert air.Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breastThe little tyrant of his fields withstood,Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country s blood.Th applause of list ning senates to command,The threats of pain and ruin to despise,To scatter plenty o er a smiling land,And read their history in a nation s eyes,Their lot forbad: nor circumscribed aloneTheir growing virtues, but their crimes confined;Forbad to wade through slaughter to a throne,And shut the gates of mercy on mankind,The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,Or heap the shrine of Luxury and PrideWith incense kindled at the Muse s flame.Far from the madding crowd s ignoble strife,Their sober wishes never learn d to stray;Along the cool sequester d vale of lifeThey kept the noiseless tenour of their way.Yet e en these bones from insult to protectSome frail memorial still erected nigh,With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck d,Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.Their name, their years, spelt by th unletter d Muse,The place of fame and elegy supply:And many a holy text around she strews,That teach the rustic moralist to die.For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,This pleasing anxious being e er resign d,Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,Nor cast one longing lingering look behind?On some fond breast the parting soul relies,Some pious drops the closing eye requires;E en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,E en in our ashes live their wonted fires.For thee, who, mindful of th unhonour d dead,Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;If chance, by lonely contemplation led,Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, --Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawnBrushing with hasty steps the dews away,To meet the sun upon the upland lawn; There at the foot of yonder nodding beechThat wreathes its old fantastic roots so high.His listless length at noontide would he stretch,And pore upon the brook that babbles by. Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove;Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn,Or crazed with care, or cross d in hopeless love. One morn I miss d him on the custom d hill,Along the heath, and near his favourite tree;Another came; nor yet beside the rill,Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he; The next with dirges due in sad arraySlow through the church-way path we saw him borne,-Approach and read (for thou canst read) the layGraved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn. The EpitaphHere rests his head upon the lap of EarthA youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown.Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth,And Melacholy marked him for her own.Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,Heaven did a recompense as largely send:He gave to Misery all he had, a tear,He gained from Heaven ( twas all he wish d) a friend.No farther seek his merits to disclose,Or draw his frailties from their dread abode(There they alike in trembling hope repose),The bosom of his Father and his God.By Thomas Gray (1716-71).
以上就是小编对于墓地哀歌 格雷问题和相关问题的解答了，墓地哀歌 格雷的问题希望对你有用！