»¶Ó·ÃÎʱ¾Õ¾¡£
¶ÅÜ÷º×´º¹¬Ô¹ Åàѵ¹«¿ª¿Î ³É¹¦¾ÀíºËÐÄÄÜÁ¦Åàѵ
ÌÆÊ«300Ê× µÚ168Ê×
ÕĄ̂ҹ˼
Τׯ
ÇåɪԹңҹ£¬ÈÆÏÒ·çÓê°§¡£
¹ÂµÆÎųþ½Ç£¬²ÐÔÂÏÂÕĄ̂¡£
·¼²ÝÒÑÔÆĺ£¬¹ÊÈËÊâδÀ´¡£
ÏçÊé²»¿É¼Ä£¬ÇïÑãÓÖÄϻء£
Wei Zhuang
A NIGHT THOUGHT ON TERRACE TOWER
Far through the night a harp is sighing
With a sadness of wind and rain in the strings....
There's a solitary lantern, a bugle-call --
And beyond Terrace Tower down goes the moon.
...Fragrant grasses have changed and faded
While still I have been hoping that my old friend would come....
There are no more messengers I can send him,
Now that the wildgeese have turned south.
ÌÆÊ«300Ê×ÎåÑÔ¹ÅÊ« ÌÆÊ«300Ê×ÎåÑÔÀÖ¸®
ÌÆÊ«300Ê×ÆßÑÔ¹ÅÊ« ÌÆÊ«300Ê×ÆßÑÔÀÖ¸® ÌÆÊ«300Ê×ÎåÑÔÂÉÊ«
ÌÆÊ«300Ê×ÆßÑÔÂÉÊ« ÎåÑÔÌÆÊ«300Ê×ÎåÑÔ¾ø¾ä ÌÆÊ«300Ê×ÆßÑÔ¾ø¾ä
¸ÐлÄú·ÃÎʱ¾Õ¾¡£