VI Autumn Fires
In the other gardens And all up the vale, From the autumn bonfires See
the smoke trail!
Pleasant summer over And all the summer flowers, The red fire blazes,
The grey smoke towers.
Sing a song of seasons! Something bright in all! Flowers in the
summer, Fires in the fall!.

VII The Gardener
The gardener does not love to talk. He makes me keep the gravel walk;
And when he puts his tools away, He locks the door and takes the key.
Away behind the currant row, Where no one else but cook may go, Far
in the plots, I see him dig, Old and serious, brown and big.
He digs the flowers, green, red, and blue, Nor wishes to be spoken to.
He digs the flowers and cuts the hay, And never seems to want to play.
Silly gardener! summer goes, And winter comes with pinching toes,
When in the garden bare and brown You must lay your barrow down.
Well now, and while the summer stays, To profit by these garden days
O how much wiser you would be To play at Indian wars with me!.

VIII Historical Associations
Dear Uncle Jim. this garden ground That now you smoke your pipe
around, has seen immortal actions done And valiant battles lost and won.
Here we had best on tip-toe tread, While I for safety march ahead, For
this is that enchanted ground Where all who loiter slumber sound.
Here is the sea, here is the sand, Here is the simple Shepherd's Land,
Here are the fairy hollyhocks, And there are Ali Baba's rocks. But yonder,
see! apart and high, Frozen Siberia lies; where I, With Robert Bruce
William Tell, Was bound by an enchanter's spell..

ENVOYS
I To Willie and Henrietta
If two may read aright These rhymes of old delight And house and
garden play, You too, my cousins, and you only, may.
You in a garden green With me were king and queen, Were hunter,
soldier, tar, And all the thousand things that children are.
Now in the elders' seat We rest with quiet feet, And from the windowbay
We watch the children, our successors, play.
"Time was," the golden head Irrevocably said; But time which one
can bind, While flowing fast away, leaves love behind..

II To My Mother
You too, my mother, read my rhymes For love of unforgotten times,
And you may chance to hear once more The little feet along the floor..

III To Auntie
"Chief of our aunts"--not only I, But all your dozen of nurselings cry--
"What did the other children do? And what were childhood, wanting you?".

IV To Minnie
The red room with the giant bed Where none but elders laid their head;
The little room where you and I Did for awhile together lie And, simple,
suitor, I your hand In decent marriage did demand; The great day nursery,
best of all, With pictures pasted on the wall And leaves upon the blind-- A
pleasant room wherein to wake And hear the leafy garden shake And rustle
in the wind-- And pleasant there to lie in bed And see the pictures
overhead-- The wars about Sebastopol, The grinning guns along the wall,

The daring escalade, The plunging ships, the bleating sheep, The happy
children ankle-deep And laughing as they wade: All these are vanished
clean away, And the old manse is changed to-day; It wears an altered face
And shields a stranger race. The river, on from mill to mill, Flows past our
childhood's garden still; But ah! we children never more Shall watch it
from the water-door! Below the yew--it still is there-- Our phantom voices
haunt the air As we were still at play, And I can hear them call and say:
"How far is it to Babylon?"
Ah, far enough, my dear, Far, far enough from here-- Smiling and kind,
you grace a shelf Too high for me to reach myself. Reach down a hand,
my dear, and take These rhymes for old acquaintance' sake! Yet you have
farther gone! "Can I get there by candlelight?" So goes the old refrain. I do
not know--perchance you might-- But only, children, hear it right, Ah,
never to return again! The eternal dawn, beyond a doubt, Shall break on
hill and plain, And put all stars and candles out Ere we be young again.
To you in distant India, these I send across the seas, Nor count it far
across. For which of us forget The Indian cabinets, The bones of antelope,
the wings of albatross, The pied and painted birds and beans, The junks
and bangles, beads and screens, The gods and sacred bells, And the loadhumming,
twisted shells! The level of the parlour floor Was honest,
homely, Scottish shore; But when we climbed upon a chair, Behold the
gorgeous East was there! Be this a fable; and behold Me in the parlour as
of old, And Minnie just above me set In the quaint Indian cabinet!.

V To My Name-child
1
Some day soon this rhyming volume, if you learn with proper speed,
Little Louis Sanchez, will be given you to read. Then you shall discover,
that your name was printed down By the English printers, long before, in
London town.
In the great and busy city where the East and West are met, All the
little letters did the English printer set; While you thought of nothing, and
were still too young to play, Foreign people thought of you in places far away.
Ay, and when you slept, a baby, over all the English lands Other little
children took the volume in their hands; Other children questioned, in their
homes across the seas: Who was little Louis, won't you tell us, mother,
please?.

V To My Name-child
2
Now that you have spelt your lesson, lay it down and go and play,
Seeking shells and seaweed on the sands of Monterey, Watching all the
mighty whalebones, lying buried by the breeze, Tiny sandpipers, and the
huge Pacific seas.
And remember in your playing, as the sea-fog rolls to you, Long ere
you could read it, how I told you what to do; And that while you thought
of no one, nearly half the world away Some one thought of Louis on the
beach of Monterey!.

As from the house your mother sees You playing round the garden
trees, So you may see, if you will look Through the windows of this book,
Another child, far, far away, And in another garden, play. But do not think
you can at all, By knocking on the window, call That child to hear you. He
intent Is all on his play-business bent. He does not hear, he will not look,
Nor yet be lured out of this book. For, long ago, the truth to say, He has
grown up and gone away, And it is but a child of air That lingers in the
garden there.

[ 本帖最后由 ououmama 于 2012-3-19 18:38 编辑 ].

这是一部非常难得的儿童诗集，收录了苏格兰随笔作家、诗人、小说家、游记作家罗伯特•斯蒂文森的儿童诗。这些诗，每首都很短，文字简单，诗境却意味深长，无论中文译诗还是英文原文，都是极佳的学习诗歌写作的范本。
    在一个孩子的奇妙世界里，卧室里的床会在深夜变成一条无畏的航船，载着勇敢的小水手驶向广阔无垠的未知世界；山谷中会诞生一个小小的王国，孩子则成为幻想中国度的君主；黑夜与白昼的交替也如此神奇，仿佛一切都被时间施了魔法，变化莫测，神秘而令人着迷……
诗人以纤细的感情和敏说的笔触，精确地把握住孩子的情绪和感觉，极其逼真地再现了童年的时光。这本诗集中的孩子正如世界上所有的孩子一样，时而乖巧，时而顽皮，总是兴高采烈，但也不免偶尔情绪低迷，但他们都是那样天真而烂漫，清澈而纯净。在这本诗集中，你可以读到一个孩子的全部的向往，在孩子的幻想中，一切都能够化平常为神奇——所有这一切，也无不唤起我们对童年时光的亲切回忆，令我们不由自主地被深深触动，浸染其中。
《一个孩子的诗园》用词简洁但意境丰富，节奏清晰，声韵和谐，在英语国家几乎每家必备，被誉为儿童学习语言的“最优美的启蒙教材”。
英国《不列颠百科全书》对斯蒂文森这本儿童诗集作出了高度评价：“在英国文学中，这些儿童诗是无以伦比的。”时至今日，这本诗集已经成为世界儿童文学经典名作。

[ 本帖最后由 ououmama 于 2012-3-19 17:32 编辑 ].

作者： (英)罗伯特 斯蒂文森
1、译者:屠岸//方谷绣 （夫妇），人民文学出版社，1982年，国内第一个版本，翻译家的精心译作，后多次再版。
屠岸后来写道---斯蒂文森的儿童诗集《一个孩子的诗园》中有一首诗：《点灯的人》。１９８４年１０月我访问英国，在爱丁堡的一次出版界集会上，我把我和方谷绣合译的《一个孩子的诗园》中文本（１９８２年人民文学出版社第１版）送给英国朋友们。座中一位Ｍ女士翻阅这本书，她不懂中文，但可以观赏书中的插图。她一眼就看中了缪印堂画的一幅，知道是《点灯的人》。她说她非常喜欢这首诗，称赞这幅插图好，画出了那个时代的气氛。她告诉我，那盏街灯现在还原封不动地竖立在这个城市的斯蒂文森故居门外。很遗憾，我来不及去看那盏灯，因为这次访英日程太紧了。２００１年我应邀赴英国讲学，时间充裕，９月，偕女儿再访爱丁堡。在爱丁堡的苏格兰三作家（彭斯、司各特、斯蒂文森）纪念馆里，我见到展柜中有《一个孩子的诗园》１８８５年初版本，正好翻开在《点灯的人》这一页。同时，在玻璃柜内灯光照射下，另一件展品是《点灯的人》的字体放大了的诗节，正吸引着来访者。我随即把它拍摄了下来。斯蒂文森的诗作很多，为什么突出《点灯的人》？我思考着，走出了纪念馆。我和女儿找到了海略罗大街１７号，门上有铜牌：“斯蒂文森故居”。可惜不能进去，里面还有住户。这条街上有一排住宅，沿街有一盏盏街灯。１７号门外的那盏，该就是斯蒂文森儿时每天傍晚见到工人李利点燃的街灯吧。１９８４年Ｍ女士说现存的街灯是当年的原物，该不会错。这街灯形状古老，保持着十九世纪的风格，只是那时用煤油，现在改用电了。我看着这街灯，感到亲切，就在灯柱旁留影。我想像着当年斯蒂文森见到的景象：工人“李利拿着提灯和梯子走来了，把街灯点亮。”我想着，为什么苏格兰朋友们那么喜欢这首诗。诗中说：“汤姆想当驾驶员，玛利亚想航海，我爸爸是个银行家，他可以非常有钱；可是，等我长大了，让我挑选职业，李利呵，我愿意跟你巡夜，把一盏盏街灯点燃！”有人说，诗中的“我”是个资产阶级家庭的孩子，他能以平等的态度对待工人，能以亲切的感情与工人交流，而且毫无阶级偏见，表示自己将来愿意当一名工人，从事体力劳动，为社会服务，因此这首诗非常难能可贵。这也许不失为一种可以认可的观点。但我感到这首诗之所以被许多人喜爱，恐怕在于它体现了一个天真孩子的幸福观。诗中说：“只要门前有街灯，我们就很幸福，李利点亮了许多盏，又点亮一盏在我家门口……”在孩子眼里，那个点灯的工人是个光的输送者，他给一家家送来光，因而给一家家送来了幸福。孩子自己将来也要做一个送光者。光是幸福的源泉。《一个孩子的诗园》里有好些诗是歌颂光的。《黑夜和白天》歌赞晨光：“花园重新呈现出来，涂满碧绿鲜红的色彩，正如昨晚花园在窗外，消失了一样奇怪……”《炉火里的军队》赞扬火光：“朦胧的夜色正在降落，炉火把空屋涂成红色，火光把天花板照得暖和，火光在书脊上跳跃闪烁。”《夏天的太阳》称颂太阳“沿着海洋，循着山岭，绕着辉煌的蓝天运行，给玫瑰着色，教儿童高兴，他——伟大宇宙的园丁。”斯蒂文森赞美工人李利，就是赞美送光的人。这跟他赞美送光的早晨、送光的炉火、送光的太阳是一致的。在他眼里，李利就是普罗米修斯。所以，《点灯的人》也是一首“光的赞歌”。
《一个孩子的诗园》里绽放着一朵朵、一丛丛美丽的花，每一朵花都是一首优美的儿童诗。除《点灯的人》外，还有《刮风的夜》、《我的影子》、《该睡的时候溜了》、《漫游》、《照不见的游戏伴儿》……等许多令人难忘的诗篇。《不列颠百科全书》指出：“《一个孩子的诗园》中的诗，表现出一个成人在重新捕捉童年的情绪和感觉时的异乎寻常的精确性。在英国文学中，这些儿童诗是无与伦比的。”请注意这里指出的“异乎寻常的精确性”。斯蒂文森写这些诗时已３５岁。一般人到了这个年龄，早已把自己儿时的心态忘记了。斯蒂文森不同，他对儿时的情绪、思维、心态、感受有着惊人的记忆力。鲁迅说：“孩子的世界与成人截然不同。”斯蒂文森却能在成年后重新把握与成人截然不同的“孩子的世界”，而且能用优美的诗句捕捉童心，把握童心，表现童心，达到“异乎寻常的精确”程度。这，确实令人惊叹。
我们，无论是儿童读者还是成人读者，读着这些诗，都会觉得心头一亮。那么，斯蒂文森虽然没能成为“点灯的人”，却成了一个给人间送光的人。
《点灯的人》捕捉了作者儿时对点灯工人送光的心理感受，写的是现实。而儿童心态中的一个特点是想像或幻想。比如，他写游戏，把自己和玩伴想像成海上的冒险家；写睡眠，把床想像成小船，把做梦想像成远航；或者，把自己的影子幻想成一个顽童；把冬天的太阳想像成“冰冷的火球”；把被子和床单想像成山林和旷野；把炉中的炭火幻想成行进的军队；把林中草丛幻想成一个“小人国”；更有甚者，把庭院幻想成古代的战场，让自己和头脑中的历史英雄人物在一起砸断镣铐，向敌人反攻……总之，这些诗无论写现实，还是写幻想，始终紧扣着儿童的心理特征、思维方式和审美情趣，而且，写得如此美妙，读来如此悦耳，不仅吸引儿童读者，也吸引成人读者。读着这些诗，就仿佛进入了一个迷人的童心王国。因此，我深感《不列颠百科全书》对这部诗集的称赞并不是过誉。
《一个孩子的诗园》是上世纪八十年代初我和妻方谷绣合译，由人民文学出版社出版的，后来再版过几次。２００１年我把这个译本赠送给爱丁堡斯蒂文森纪念馆，该馆负责人表示感谢并予以珍藏。现在人民文学出版社再次重印这本书，我对译本文字作了个别的调整。方谷绣已于１９９８年病逝。再印此书，也是对她的纪念。她在九泉之下见到这本书的新版本，也会高兴的。２００６年５月   

2、重庆出版社，刘荣跃翻译，2002年
3、出版社：吉林出版集团，译者：徐家宁，出版日期：2007-07-01，ISBN：9787807206910，
4、 湖北教育出版社，张洁校译，外国儿童文学经典100部 I S B N ： 9787535160768        出版时间： 2010-7-1
5、武汉大学出版社，文爱艺译，2010年秋出版（舒羽在序中点评道--这部译著更为贴合一个成年诗人对孩童记忆的抚摸（当然不乏适度的童稚语调）。有心的读者如能阅读原著，会发现作者的本意是用成年人的笔触写出孩提时代的所见所闻所想，是将此书奉献给每一个愿意阅读它的人，而非仅仅为孩子准备。这一点从第37首中可以得到证实：“你拿着的是我在争吵后给你的豆子，而我拿着的是你在最后一个星期六给我的玻璃球，如今我俩都已年迈，光荣一生。就让我们在这儿重聚，缅怀那过往的时光。”再看第97首：“隐去所有星星，熄灭所有蜡烛，在这之前我们会再次年轻。” 也正是这种交织着理性与感性、记忆与经验的特殊效果使得它流传至今，并始终被大众读者亲睐。）
6、一个孩子的诗园  重庆出版社  2011-5
罗伯特·斯蒂文森(Stevenson.R.L.) (作者), 肯·尼尔森(NILSEN.K.) (插图作者), 屠岸 (译者), 方谷绣 (译者)

[ 本帖最后由 ououmama 于 2012-3-20 12:10 编辑 ].

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