向你致敬，快乐的精灵!你从来不是一只鸟，从天上或近处，把你的全心倾注在不加思索的艺术中。你从地上越升越高，好像火云冒出;你在蔚蓝的深渊上展翅，你的歌声依旧飞扬，你的歌声永远飞扬。在下沉的太阳的金色闪电中，云彩在明亮的上空闪烁，你漂浮着奔跑着，像一种无形的喜悦，它的赛跑刚刚开始。淡紫色甚至融化在你的飞翔周围;你像天上的一颗星，在光天化日之下看不见，但我却能听到你那尖声的欢愉:就像那银球的箭一样锐利，它的强光在白净的黎明里变窄，直到我们几乎看不见——我们感到它就在那儿。大地和空气都因你的声音而响亮。当黑夜光秃秃的时候，从一片孤独的云里，月亮洒下了她的光芒，天上溢满了光。你是什么，我们不知道。 What is most like thee? From rainbow clouds there flow not Drops so bright to see As from thy presence showers a rain of melody. Like a poet hidden In the light of thought, Singing hymns unbidden, Till the world is wrought To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not: Like a high-born maiden In a palace tower, Soothing her love-laden Soul in secret hour With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower: Like a glow-worm golden In a dell of dew, Scattering unbeholden Its aerial hue Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view: Like a rose embowered In its own green leaves, By warm winds deflowered, Till the scent it gives Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged thieves. Sound of vernal showers On the twinkling grass, Rain-awakened flowers, All that ever was Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass. Teach us, sprite or bird, What sweet thoughts are thine: I have never heard Praise of love or wine That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. Chorus hymeneal Or triumphal chaunt Matched with thine, would be all But an empty vaunt-- A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want. What objects are the fountains Of thy happy strain? What fields, or waves, or mountains? What shapes of sky or plain? What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain? With thy clear keen joyance Languor cannot be: Shadow of annoyance Never came near thee: Thou lovest, but ne'er knew love's sad satiety. Waking or asleep, Thou of death must deem Things more true and deep Than we mortals dream, Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream? We look before and after, And pine for what is not: Our sincerest laughter With some pain is fraught; Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought. Yet if we could scorn Hate, and pride, and fear; If we were things born Not to shed a tear, I know not how thy joy we ever should come near. Better than all measures Of delightful sound, Better than all treasures That in books are found, Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground! Teach me half the gladness That thy brain must know, Such harmonious madness From my lips would flow The world should listen then, as I am listening now!