月亮升起来Spell of the Rising Moon（1/2）

皮特·斯坦哈特/ Peter Stehart

皮特·斯坦哈特(1785—1851)美国博物学家，作家。他曾是以奥特朋（1785—1851，美国鸟类学家，画家及博物学家）命名的杂志的编辑及专栏作家，并且一干就是二十年。他的作品曾被很多报刊采用，如：《纽约时报》《洛杉矶时报》《琼斯妈妈》等。

Acethe Hole

Uand these new words before you read this article.

1. profound [pr?ufaund] adj. 深厚的；意义深远的

2. stall [st?:l] v. 停止

3. bestow [bist?u] v. 授予

4. loo [:] v. 朦胧地出现；隐约可见

There is a hill near y ho that I often clib at night. The noise of the city is a far-off urur. In the hh of dark I share the cheerfulness of crickets and the nfidence of owls. But it is the draa of the oohat I e to see. For that restoresa quiet and crity that the city spends too freely.

Fro this hill I have watched any oons rise. Eae had its own ood. There have been broad,harvest oonsautun; shy, isty oonssprg; lonely, ter o to the utter silence of an k-bck sky and soke-sudged e oons over the dry fields of sur. Each, like fe ic, excited y heart and then cald y soul.

Moon gazg is an a art. To prehistoriters the oon overhead was as unerrg as heartbeat. They khat every 29 days it bee full-bellied and brilliant, then sied and died, and then was reborn. They khe waxg oon appeared rger and higher overhead after each sueedg suhey khe wang oon rose ter eaight until it vahe suo have uood the oon’s patterns fro experie been a profound thg.

But we, who live doors, have lost ntact with the oon. The gre of street lights and the dt of poltiohe night sky. Though n have walked on the oon, it grows less failiar. Few ofsay when the oon will rise tonight.

Still, it tugs at our ds. If we uedly ehe full oon, huge and yellow over the horizon, we are helpless but to stare back at its andg presence. And the oon has gifts to bestow upon those who watch.

I learned about its gifts one July evengthe ountas. My car had ysterioly stalled, and I was stranded and alohe sun had set, and I was watchg what seed to be the bright-e glow of a forest fire beyond a ridge to the east. Suddenly, the ridge itself seed to burst to f. Then, the risg oon, huge and red and grotesquely ishappen by the dt and sweat of the sur atosphere, lood up out of the woods.

Distorted th by the hot breath of earth, the oon seed ill-tepered and iperfect. Dogs at nearby farhoes barked nervoly, as if this strange light had wakened evil spiritsthe weeds.

But as the oon lifted off the ridge it gathered firness and authority. Its plexion ged fro red, te, to gold, to ipassive yellow. It seed to draw light out of the darkeh, for as it rose, the hills and valleys below grew dir. By the ti the oon stood clear of the horizon, full chested and round and the lor of ivory, the valleys were deep shadowsthe ndscape. The dogs, reassured that this was the failiar oon, sped barkg. And all at once I felt a nfidend joy close to ughter.

The draa took an hour. Moonrise is slow and serried with subtleties. To watch it, we t slip to an older, ore patient sense of ti. To watch the oon ove exorably higher is to fd an unual stillness with ourselves. ations bee aware of the vast distances of space, the sity of the earth and huge iprobability of our owence. We feel sall but privileged.

Moonlight showsnone of life’s harder edges. Hillsides see silken and silvery, the os still as light. In oonlight we bee less calcutg, ore drawn to our feelgs.

And odd thgs happensuts. On that July night, I watched the oon for an hour or o, and then got back to the car, turhe keythe ignition and heard the eart, jt as ysterioly as it had stalled a few hours earlier. I drove down fro the ountas with the oon on y shoulder and peacey heart.

I return often to the risg oon. I a draw especially whes crowd ease and crity of vision to a sall rner of y life. This happens oftenthe fall. Then I go to y hill and await the hunter’s oon, enoro and gold over the horizon, fillg, the night with vision.

An owl swoops fro the ridge , noiseless but bright as f. A cricket shrillsthe grass. I thk of poets and is. Of Beethoven’s“Moonlight Sonata”and of Shakespeare, whose Lorenzo decisThe Mert of Venice,“How sweet the oonlight sleeps upon this bank! /Here will we sit ahe sounds of ic/Creepour ears.”I wonder if their verse and ic, like the ic of crickets, areso way voices of the oon. With such thoughts, y citified nfions lt to the quiet of the night.

Lovers and poets fd deeper ang at night. We are all apt to pose deeper questions—about our s aies. We dulgeriddles, rather thanthe ipersonal geotries that govern the daylight world. We bee philosophers and ystics.

At oonrise, as we slow our ds to the pace of the heave steals over . We open the vents of feelg and exercise parts of our ds that reason locks away by day. We hear, across the distances, ururs of a hunter and see ahe visions of poets and lovers of long ago.

参考译文

有一座小山就坐落在我家附近，我常常会在夜间去爬山。到了山上，城市里的嘈杂就会变成远方的低语。在安静的黑夜里，我能够感觉到蟋蟀的欢乐和猫头鹰的自信。不过，看月出才是我爬山的目的，重新找回在城市中轻易就迷失的那种宁静与纯真。

在小山上，我看过很多次月出。每次月出都是各有风情，不尽相同。秋日里，圆圆的月亮露出丰收的自信；春风中，月亮灰蒙蒙地表达着羞涩；冬日里，冰轮般的月亮孤独地悬在漆黑的空中；夏日中，橘黄色的月亮朦朦胧胧地俯瞰着干燥的田野。每一种月亮都似精美的音乐，感动我的心灵，抚慰我的灵魂。

赏月是一种古老的艺术。远古时代的猎人，对空中月亮的了解如同知晓自己的心跳一样，丝毫不差。他们熟悉29天中的每个月亮，月亮会由明亮饱满变得萎缩，直至消失，然后再次复活；他们知道，月盈期间，每当日落，头顶的月亮就会显得更高更大；他们还知道，月亏期间，月出一日更比一日迟，直到有一天，太阳升起时仍不见月亮的踪迹。古人能根据经验知道到月亮的行踪变化，真是造诣颇深的事情。

但生活在室内的我们，已经失去了和月亮的联系。城市耀眼的街灯、玷污的烟尘遮蔽了原本晴朗的夜空。人类虽已在月亮上迈出了第一步，反而对月亮变得更加陌生。没有几人能说得出今晚月亮何时升起。

无论如何，月亮仍然牵挂着我们的心。如果不经意间看到刚刚升起的、大大的、黄澄澄的满月，我都会情不自禁地停下来，一睹她高贵的姿容。而月亮也会赐予观看她的人礼物。

在七月山间的一个夜晚，我得到了她的礼物。车子莫名其妙地熄了火，我一个人束手无策地困在山中。太阳已经落山了，我看到东边山头闪出一团橘红色的光线，好像森林着火一样。刹那间，山头也被火焰吞噬。过了一会儿，月亮突然从密林中探出涨红的大大的脸，夏日空气中弥漫的尘雾与汗气，使月亮显得有些荒谬的变形。

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