下面是學(xué)習(xí)啦小編為大家?guī)戆?middot;洛威爾的經(jīng)典詩歌：The Cremona Violin，希望大家喜歡!

　　Part First

　　Frau Concert-Meister Altgelt shut the door.

　　A storm was rising, heavy gusts of wind

　　Swirled through the trees, and scattered leaves before

　　Her on the clean, flagged path. The sky behind

　　The distant town was black, and sharp defined

　　Against it shone the lines of roofs and towers,

　　Superimposed and flat like cardboard flowers.

　　A pasted city on a purple ground,

　　Picked out with luminous paint, it seemed. The cloud

　　Split on an edge of lightning, and a sound

　　Of rivers full and rushing boomed through bowed,

　　Tossed, hissing branches. Thunder rumbled loud

　　Beyond the town fast swallowing into gloom.

　　Frau Altgelt closed the windows of each room.

　　She bustled round to shake by constant moving

　　The strange, weird atmosphere. She stirred the fire,

　　She twitched the supper-cloth as though improving

　　Its careful setting, then her own attire

　　Came in for notice, tiptoeing higher and higher

　　She peered into the wall-glass, now adjusting

　　A straying lock, or else a ribbon thrusting

　　This way or that to suit her. At last

　　sitting,

　　Or rather plumping down upon a chair,

　　She took her work, the stocking she was knitting,

　　And watched the rain upon the window glare

　　In white, bright drops. Through the black glass a flare

　　Of lightning squirmed about her needles. "Oh!"

　　She cried. "What can be keeping Theodore so!"

　　A roll of thunder set the casements clapping.

　　Frau Altgelt flung her work aside and ran,

　　Pulled open the house door, with kerchief flapping

　　She stood and gazed along the street. A man

　　Flung back the garden-gate and nearly ran

　　Her down as she stood in the door. "Why, Dear,

　　What in the name of patience brings you here?

　　Quick, Lotta, shut the door, my violin

　　I fear is wetted. Now, Dear, bring a light.

　　This clasp is very much too worn and thin.

　　I'll take the other fiddle out to-night

　　If it still rains. Tut! Tut! my child, you're quite

　　Clumsy. Here, help me, hold the case while I --

　　Give me the candle. No, the inside's dry.

　　Thank God for that! Well, Lotta, how

　　are you?

　　A bad storm, but the house still stands, I see.

　　Is my pipe filled, my Dear? I'll have a few

　　Puffs and a snooze before I eat my tea.

　　What do you say? That you were feared for me?

　　Nonsense, my child. Yes, kiss me, now don't talk.

　　I need a rest, the theatre's a long walk."

　　Her needles still, her hands upon her lap

　　Patiently laid, Charlotta Altgelt sat

　　And watched the rain-run window. In his nap

　　Her husband stirred and muttered. Seeing that,

　　Charlotta rose and softly, pit-a-pat,

　　Climbed up the stairs, and in her little room

　　Found sighing comfort with a moon in bloom.

　　But even rainy windows, silver-lit

　　By a new-burst, storm-whetted moon, may give

　　But poor content to loneliness, and it

　　Was hard for young Charlotta so to strive

　　And down her eagerness and learn to live

　　In placid quiet. While her husband slept,

　　Charlotta in her upper chamber wept.

　　Herr Concert-Meister Altgelt was a man

　　Gentle and unambitious, that alone

　　Had kept him back. He played as few men can,

　　Drawing out of his instrument a tone

　　So shimmering-sweet and palpitant, it shone

　　Like a bright thread of sound hung in the air,

　　Afloat and swinging upward, slim and fair.

　　Above all things, above Charlotta his wife,

　　Herr Altgelt loved his violin, a fine

　　Cremona pattern, Stradivari's life

　　Was flowering out of early discipline

　　When this was fashioned. Of soft-cutting pine

　　The belly was. The back of broadly curled

　　Maple, the head made thick and sharply whirled.

　　The slanting, youthful sound-holes

　　through

　　The belly of fine, vigorous pine

　　Mellowed each note and blew

　　It out again with a woody flavour

　　Tanged and fragrant as fir-trees are

　　When breezes in their needles jar.

　　The varnish was an orange-brown

　　Lustered like glass that's long laid down

　　Under a crumbling villa stone.

　　Purfled stoutly, with mitres which point

　　Straight up the corners. Each curve

　　and joint

　　Clear, and bold, and thin.

　　Such was Herr Theodore's violin.

　　Seven o'clock, the Concert-Meister gone

　　With his best violin, the rain being stopped,

　　Frau Lotta in the kitchen sat alone

　　Watching the embers which the fire dropped.

　　The china shone upon the dresser, topped

　　By polished copper vessels which her skill

　　Kept brightly burnished. It was very still.

　　An air from `Orfeo' hummed in her head.

　　Herr Altgelt had been practising before

　　The night's performance. Charlotta had plead

　　With him to stay with her. Even at the door

　　She'd begged him not to go. "I do implore

　　You for this evening, Theodore," she had said.

　　"Leave them to-night, and stay with me instead."

　　"A silly poppet!" Theodore pinched her

　　ear.

　　"You'd like to have our good Elector turn

　　Me out I think." "But, Theodore, something queer

　　Ails me. Oh, do but notice how they burn,

　　My cheeks! The thunder worried me. You're

　　stern,

　　And cold, and only love your work, I know.

　　But Theodore, for this evening, do not go."

　　But he had gone, hurriedly at the end,

　　For she had kept him talking. Now she sat

　　Alone again, always alone, the trend

　　Of all her thinking brought her back to that

　　She wished to banish. What would life be? What?

　　For she was young, and loved, while he was moved

　　Only by music. Each day that was proved.

　　Each day he rose and practised. While

　　he played,

　　She stopped her work and listened, and her heart

　　Swelled painfully beneath her bodice. Swayed

　　And longing, she would hide from him her smart.

　　"Well, Lottchen, will that do?" Then what a start

　　She gave, and she would run to him and cry,

　　And he would gently chide her, "Fie, Dear, fie.

　　I'm glad I played it well. But such

　　a taking!

　　You'll hear the thing enough before I've done."

　　And she would draw away from him, still shaking.

　　Had he but guessed she was another one,

　　Another violin. Her strings were aching,

　　Stretched to the touch of his bow hand, again

　　He played and she almost broke at the strain.

　　Where was the use of thinking of it now,

　　Sitting alone and listening to the clock!

　　She'd best make haste and knit another row.

　　Three hours at least must pass before his knock

　　Would startle her. It always was a shock.

　　She listened -- listened -- for so long before,

　　That when it came her hearing almost tore.

　　She caught herself just starting in to listen.

　　What nerves she had: rattling like brittle sticks!

　　She wandered to the window, for the glisten

　　Of a bright moon was tempting. Snuffed the wicks

　　Of her two candles. Still she could not fix

　　To anything. The moon in a broad swath

　　Beckoned her out and down the garden-path.

　　Against the house, her hollyhocks stood high

　　And black, their shadows doubling them. The night

　　Was white and still with moonlight, and a sigh

　　Of blowing leaves was there, and the dim flight

　　Of insects, and the smell of aconite,

　　And stocks, and Marvel of Peru. She flitted

　　Along the path, where blocks of shadow pitted

　　The even flags. She let herself go dreaming

　　Of Theodore her husband, and the tune

　　From `Orfeo' swam through her mind, but seeming

　　Changed -- shriller. Of a sudden, the clear moon

　　Showed her a passer-by, inopportune

　　Indeed, but here he was, whistling and striding.

　　Lotta squeezed in between the currants, hiding.

　　"The best laid plans of mice and men," alas!

　　The stranger came indeed, but did not pass.

　　Instead, he leant upon the garden-gate,

　　Folding his arms and whistling. Lotta's state,

　　Crouched in the prickly currants, on wet grass,

　　Was far from pleasant. Still the stranger stayed,

　　And Lotta in her currants watched, dismayed.

　　He seemed a proper fellow standing there

　　In the bright moonshine. His cocked hat was laced

　　With silver, and he wore his own brown hair

　　Tied, but unpowdered. His whole bearing graced

　　A fine cloth coat, and ruffled shirt, and chased

　　Sword-hilt. Charlotta looked, but her position

　　Was hardly easy. When would his volition

　　Suggest his walking on? And then that

　　tune!

　　A half-a-dozen bars from `Orfeo'

　　Gone over and over, and murdered. What Fortune

　　Had brought him there to stare about him so?

　　"Ach, Gott im Himmel! Why will he not go!"

　　Thought Lotta, but the young man whistled on,

　　And seemed in no great hurry to be gone.

　　Charlotta, crouched among the currant bushes,

　　Watched the moon slowly dip from twig to twig.

　　If Theodore should chance to come, and blushes

　　Streamed over her. He would not care a fig,

　　He'd only laugh. She pushed aside a sprig

　　Of sharp-edged leaves and peered, then she uprose

　　Amid her bushes. "Sir," said she, "pray whose

　　Garden do you suppose you're watching? Why

　　Do you stand there? I really must insist

　　Upon your leaving. 'Tis unmannerly

　　To stay so long." The young man gave a twist

　　And turned about, and in the amethyst

　　Moonlight he saw her like a nymph half-risen

　　From the green bushes which had been her prison.

　　He swept his hat off in a hurried bow.

　　"Your pardon, Madam, I had no idea

　　I was not quite alone, and that is how

　　I came to stay. My trespass was not sheer

　　Impertinence. I thought no one was here,

　　And really gardens cry to be admired.

　　To-night especially it seemed required.

　　And may I beg to introduce myself?

　　Heinrich Marohl of Munich. And your name?"

　　Charlotta told him. And the artful elf

　　Promptly exclaimed about her husband's fame.

　　So Lotta, half-unwilling, slowly came

　　To conversation with him. When she went

　　Into the house, she found the evening spent.

　　Theodore arrived quite wearied out and teased,

　　With all excitement in him burned away.

　　It had gone well, he said, the audience pleased,

　　And he had played his very best to-day,

　　But afterwards he had been forced to stay

　　And practise with the stupid ones. His head

　　Ached furiously, and he must get to bed.