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´Ó¸èÓ½µÄÒÕÊõ¶ÔÏó¿´£¬Ê«ÈËÄǹÛÉ͵ÄÄ¿¹âת¶ø¶Ô×¼ÁËÒ»¸öÓÀºã²»±äµÄ¶ÔÏ󡪡ªÏ£À°¹ÅÎÍ¡£ÕâĬȻ¡¢±ùÀ䵫²»·¦ÒÕÊõ÷ÈÁ¦µÄ¹Å´úµñ¿ÌÕäÆ·£¬ËƺõÏòÊ«ÈË͸¶³öijÖÖÓÀºãµÄÐÅÏ¢¡£ÃüÔ˸³ÓèÎÒÃǵÄÌ«¶ÌÔÝ£¬ÎÒÃǾÍÏñ´Ò´Ò¹ý¿Í£¬³àÌõÌõÎÞÇ£ÎÞ¹ÒµÄÀ´£¬ÓÖ¹ÂÁãÁãÐÄÊÂÖØÖصÄÀ뿪¡£\n\nOde on a Grecian Urn\nÏ£À°¹ÅÎÍËÌ\n\nTHOU still unravish\u0027d bride of quietness,\nÄãίÉí¡°¼Å¾²¡±µÄ¡¢ÍêÃÀµÄ´¦×Ó£¬\n\nThou foster-child of Silence and slow Time,\nÊܹýÁË¡°³ÁĬ¡±ºÍ¡°Óƾᱵĸ§Óý£¬\n\nSylvan historian, who canst thus express\nºÇ£¬ÌïÔ°µÄÊ·¼Ò£¬\n\nA flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:\nÄã¾¹ÄÜÆÌÐðÒ»¸öÈ绨µÄ¹ÊÊ£¬±ÈÊ«»¹¹åÀö:\n\nWhat leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape\nÔÚÄãµÄÐÎÌåÉÏ£¬Æñ·ÇçÔÈÆ׏ÅÀϵĴ«Ëµ£¬\n\nOf deities or mortals, or of both,\nÒÔÂÌҶΪÆä±ßÔµ£»\n\nIn Tempe or the dales of Arcady?\n½²×ÅÈË£¬»òÉñ£¬¶ØÚé»ò°¢¿¨µÒ£¿\n\nWhat men or gods are these? What maidens loth?\nºÇ£¬ÊÇÔõÑùµÄÈË£¬»òÉñ£¡\n\nWhat mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?\nÔÚÎèÀÖÇ°¶àÈÈÁÒµÄ×·Çó£¡ÉÙÅ®ÔõÑùµØÌӶ㣡\n\nWhat pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?\nÔõÑùµÄ·çµÑºÍ¹ÄÒ¥£¡ÔõÑùµÄ¿ñϲ£¡\n\nHeard melodies are sweet, but those unheard\nÌý¼ûµÄÀÖÉùËäºÃ£¬µ«ÈôÌý²»¼ûÈ´¸üÃÀ£»\n\nAre sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;\nËùÒÔ£¬´µ°É£¬ÈáÇéµÄ·çµÑ£»\n\nNot to the sensual ear, but, more endear\u0027d,\n²»ÊÇ×à¸ø¶ú¶äÌý£¬¶øÊǸüÌð£¬\n\nPipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:\nËü¸øÁé»ê×à³öÎÞÉùµÄÀÖÇú£»\n\nFair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave\nÊ÷ϵÄÃÀÉÙÄêºÇ£¬ÄãÎÞ·¨ÖжÏÄãµÄ¸è£¬\n\nThy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;\nÄÇÊ÷ľҲÂä²»ÁËÒ¶×Ó£»\n\nBold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,\n±çµÄÁµÈË£¬ÄãÓÀÔ¶¡¢ÓÀÔ¶ÎDz»ÉÏ£¬\n\nThough winning near the goal¡ªyet, do not grieve;\nËäÈ»¹»½Ó½üÁË¡ª¡ªµ«²»±ØÐÄË᣻\n\nShe cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,\nËý²»»áÀÏ£¬ËäÈ»Äã²»ÄÜÈçÔ¸ÒÔ³¥£¬\n\nFor ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!\nÄ㽫ÓÀÔ¶°®ÏÂÈ¥£¬ËýÒ²ÓÀÔ¶ÐãÀö£¡\n\nAh, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed\nºÇ£¬ÐÒ¸£µÄÊ÷ľ£¡\n\nYour leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;\nÄãµÄÖ¦Ò¶²»»á°þÂ䣬´Ó²»ÔøÀ뿪´ºÌ죻\n\nAnd, happy melodist, unweari¨¨d,\nÐÒ¸£µÄ´µµÑÈËÒ²²»»áͣЪ£¬\n\nFor ever piping songs for ever new;\nËûµÄ¸èÇúÓÀÔ¶ÊÇÄÇôÐÂÏÊ£»\n\nMore happy love! more happy, happy love!\nºÇ£¬¸üΪÐÒ¸£µÄ¡¢ÐÒ¸£µÄ°®£¡\n\nFor ever warm and still to be enjoy\u0027d,\nÓÀÔ¶ÈÈÁÒ£¬ÕýµÈ´ýÇéÈËÑç÷Ï£¬\n\nFor ever panting, and for ever young;\nÓÀÔ¶ÈÈÇéµØÐÄÌø£¬ÓÀÔ¶ÄêÇ᣻\n\nAll breathing human passion far above,\nÐÒ¸£µÄÊÇÕâÒ»Çг¬·²µÄÇé̬:\n\nThat leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy\u0027d,\nËü²»»áʹÐÄÁé÷Ð×ãºÍ±¯ÉË£¬\n\nA burning forehead, and a parching tongue.\nûÓгãÈȵÄÍ·ÄÔ£¬½¹¿ÊµÄ×ì´½¡£\n\nWho are these coming to the sacrifice?\nÕâЩÈËÊÇË­ºÇ£¬¶¼È¥¸Ï¼Àì룿\n\nTo what green altar, O mysterious priest,\nÕâ×÷ÎþÉüµÄСţ£¬¶ÔÌìÃù½Ð£¬\n\nLead\u0027st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,\nÄãҪǣËüµ½ÄĶù£¬ÉñÃصļÀ˾£¿\n\nAnd all her silken flanks with garlands drest?\n»¨»·×ºÂú×ÅËü¹â»¬µÄÉíÑü¡£\n\nWhat little town by river or sea-shore,\nÊÇ´ÓÄĸö°øºÓ°øº£µÄСÕò£¬\n\nOr mountain-built with peaceful citadel,\n»òÄĸö¾²¾²µÄ±¤Õ¯É½´å£¬\n\nIs emptied of its folk, this pious morn?\nÀ´ÁËÕâЩÈË£¬ÔÚÕâ¾´ÉñµÄÇåÔ磿\n\nAnd, little town, thy streets for evermore\nºÇ£¬Ð¡Õò£¬ÄãµÄ½ÖµÀÓÀÔ¶Ìñ¾²£»\n\nWill silent be; and not a soul, to tell\nÔÙÒ²²»¿ÉÄÜ»ØÀ´Ò»¸öÁé»ê¸æËßÈË£¬\n\nWhy thou art desolate, can e\u0027er return.\nÄãºÎÒÔÊÇÕâô¼ÅÁÈ¡£\n\nO Attic shape! fair attitude! with brede\nŶ£¬Ï£À°µÄÐÎ×´£¡Î¨ÃÀµÄ¹ÛÕÕ£¡\n\nOf marble men and maidens overwrought,\nŶ£¬Ï£À°µÄÐÎ×´£¡Î¨ÃÀµÄ¹ÛÕÕ£¡\n\nWith forest branches and the trodden weed;\nÉÏÃæ׺ÓÐʯµñµÄÄÐÈ˺ÍÅ®ÈË£¬»¹ÓÐÁÖľ£¬ºÍ¼ṳ̀¹ýµÄÇà²Ý£»\n\nThou, silent form! dost tease us out of thought\n³ÁĬµÄÐÎÌåºÇ£¬ÄãÏóÊÇ¡°ÓÀºã¡±Ê¹È˳¬Ô½Ë¼Ïë:\n\nAs doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!\nºÇ£¬±ùÀäµÄÄÁ¸è£¡\n\nWhen old age shall this generation waste,\nµÈĺÄêʹÕâÒ»ÊÀ´ú¶¼µòÂ䣬ֻÓÐÄãÈç¾É£»\n\nThou shalt remain, in midst of other woe\nÔÚÁíÍâµÄһЩÓÇÉËÖУ¬\n\nThan ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say\u0027st,\nÄã»á¸§Î¿ºóÈË˵:\n\n\u0027Beauty is truth, truth beauty,¡ªthat is all\n¡°ÃÀ¼´ÊÇÕ棬Õæ¼´ÊÇÃÀ£¬¡±\n\nYe know on earth, and all ye need to know.\nÕâ¾Í°üÀ¨ÄãÃÇËùÖªµÀ¡¢ºÍ¸ÃÖªµÀµÄÒ»ÇС£¡ô¡°Ode on a Grecian Urn¡±¡¶Ï£À°¹ÅÎÍËÌ¡·