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- William Wordsworth (1770~1850)

 

 

 

ÃÊ¿øÀÇ ºû

¾î¸° ½ÃÀýÀ» ȸ»óÇϸ鼭 ¿µ»ýºÒ¸êÀ» ±ú´Ý´Â ³ë·¡¿¡¼­

 

 

ÇѶ§ ±×·¸°Ôµµ Âù¶õÇß´ø ±¤Ã¤°¡
ÀÌÁ¦ ´«¾Õ¿¡¼­ ¿µ¿øÈ÷ »ç¶óÁø´Ù Çصµ
ÃÊ¿øÀÇ ºûÀÌ¿©, ²ÉÀÇ ¿µ±¤ÀÌ¿©
±× ½ÃÀýÀ» µ¹ÀÌų ¼ö ¾ø´Ù Çصµ,
 
¿ì¸® ½½ÆÛÇϱ⺸´Ù, Â÷¶ó¸®
µÚ¿¡ ³²Àº °Í¿¡¼­ ÈûÀ» ãÀ¸¸®
 
Áö±Ý±îÁö ÀÖ¾ú°í ¾ÕÀ¸·Îµµ ¿µ¿øÀÌ ÀÖÀ»
º»¿øÀûÀÎ °ø°¨¿¡¼­
Àΰ£ÀÇ °íÅëÀ¸·ÎºÎÅÍ ¼Ú¾Æ³ª¿À´Â
 
 
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Á×À½ ³Ê¸Ó¸¦ º¸´Â ½Å¾Ó¿¡¼­
±×¸®°í ÁöÇý·Î¿î Á¤½ÅÀ» °¡Á®´Ù ÁÖ´Â ¼¼¿ù¿¡¼­
 

Splendor in the Grass

from Ode: Intimations of Immortality from
Recollections of Early Childhood
 

 

What though the radiance which was once so bright
Be now for ever taken from my sight,
Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower

 

We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind;
 
In the primal sympathy
Which having been must ever be;
In the soothing thoughts that spring
Out of human suffering;
 
In the faith that looks through death,
In years that bring the philosophic mind.

 

 

 

¡á Ãß¼öÇÏ´Â ¾Æ°¡¾¾

The Solitary Reaper

 

º¸°Ô³ª, Àú ¹ç¿¡¼­ Ȧ·Î
°î½Ä °ÅµÎ¸ç Á¦ Èï¿¡ °Ü¿ö ³ë·¡ ºÎ¸£´Â
Àú ¿Ü·Î¿î *ÇÏÀÏ·£µå ¾Æ°¡¾¾¸¦.
Àá½Ã ¿©±â ¼­ Àְųª Á¶¿ëÈ÷ Áö³ª°¡°Ô³ª.
Ȧ·Î ÀÌ»è ÀÚ¸£°í ´Ù¹ß ¹­À¸¸ç
¾ÖÀÜÇÑ ³ë·¡ ºÎ¸£´Â ¾Æ°¡¾¾.
¿À, µé¾î º¸°Ô³ª, ±í°í ±íÀº °ñÂ¥±â¿¡
³ÑÃÄ È帣´Â Àú ³ë·§¼Ò¸®.
¾Æ¶óºñ¾Æ »ç¸·, ¾î¶² ±×´ÃÁø ½°ÅÍ¿¡¼­
ÁöÄ£ ³ª±×³× ¹«¸®¿¡°Ô
Àß ¿À¼Ì´Ù ³ë·¡ ºÎ¸¥ ³ªÀÌÆðÔÀÏ »õ°¡
À̺¸´Ù ´õ °í¿î ³ë·¡ ºÒ·¶À»±î?
¾ÆÁÖ ¾ÆÁÖ ¸Ö¸® *Çìºê¸®µðÁî ¼¶µéÀÌ ¸ð¿© ÀÖ´Â °÷
±× ¹Ù´ÙÀÇ Àû¸·À» ±úÄ¡´Â
º½³¯ »µ±¹»õ ³ë·¡°¡ ÀÌ ¸ñ¼Ò¸®¸¶³É
°¡½¿ ÁË°Ô ÇßÀ»±î?
ÀÌ ¾Æ°¡¾¾ ³ë·¡¿¡ ´ã±ä À̾߱⠵é·Á ÁÙ ÀÌ ÀÖÀ»±î?
¾Æ¸¶µµ ¿À·¡ Àü ¸Õ °÷ÀÇ ½½Ç À̾߱â,
¿¾³¯ ¿¾³¯ÀÇ ½Î¿ò À̾߱⸦
ÀÌ ¼­·¯¿î °îÁ¶°¡ ´ã°í ÀÖÀ»±î?
¾Æ´Ï¸é ¿À´Ã³¯ÀÇ »ç¿¬ÀÌ ±êµéÀÎ
Á»´õ ¼Ò¹ÚÇÑ ³ë·¡,
Áö±Ý±îÁö ÀÖ¾î ¿Â, ¾ÕÀ¸·Îµµ ÀÖÀ»
ÀÏ»óÀÇ ½½ÇÄ, ¿©ÀÊ, ±«·Î¿ò¿¡ ´ëÇÑ ³ë·¡Àϱî?
´ã±ä À̾߱â¾ß ¾î¶»µç ¾Æ°¡¾¾´Â ³ë·¡ ºÒ·¶Áö,
³¡ÀÌ ¾øÀ» µí ¿À·¡ ¿À·¡.
±× ¿©ÀÚ°¡ ÀÏÇÏ¸ç ³ë·¡ ºÎ¸£¸ç
Ç㸮 ±ÁÇô ³´À» ¾²´Â °ÍÀ» º¸¾ÒÁö.
±Í ±â¿ï¿´Áö, ²Ä¦ ¾Ê°í ¼­¼­,
³»°¡ ¾ð´ö¿¡ ¿À¸¦ ¶§,
ÀÌ¹Ì µé¸®Áö ¾ÊÀº Áö ¿À·¡°Ç¸¸
±× ³ë·¡ ¸¶À½¿¡ µé¸®°í ÀÖ¾úÁö.
Behold her, single in the field,
Yon solitary Highland Lass!
Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here, or gently pass!
Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain;
O listen! for the Vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.
No Nightingale did ever chaunt
More welcome notes to weary bands
Of travellers in some shady haunt,
Among Arabian sands:
A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard
In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.
Will no one tell me what she sings?
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago:
Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of to-day?
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again?
Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o'er the sickle bending;
I listened, motionless and still;
And, as I mounted up the hill,
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.

 

 

 

»µ²Ù±â¿¡ ºÎÃÄ

TO THE CUCKOOW  

 

¿À, À¯ÄèÇÑ »õ¼Õ(ËÔ)ÀÌ¿©!
¿¹ µè°í Áö±Ý ¶Ç µéÀ¸´Ï ³» ¸¶À½ ±â»Ú´Ù.
¿À, »µ²Ù±â¿©! ³» ³Ê¸¦ '»õ'¶ó ºÎ¸£·ª,
Çì¸Å´Â '¼Ò¸®'¶ó ºÎ¸£·ª?
 
Ç®¹ç¿¡ ´©¿ö¼­
°ÅǪ ¿ì´Â ³» ¼Ò¸± µè´Â´Ù.
¸Ö°íµµ °¡±î¿î µí
ÀÌ »ê Àú »ê ¿Å¾Æ°¡´Â±¸³ª.
 
°ñÂ¥±â¿¡°Õ ÇÑ°«
ÇÞºû°ú ²É ¾ê±â·Î µé¸± Å×Áö¸¸
³Ê´Â ³»°Ô ½Ç¾î´Ù ÁØ´Ù.
²Þ ¸¹Àº ½ÃÀýÀÇ ¾ê±â¸¦ Á¤¸»ÀÌÁö Àß ¿Ô±¸³ª
 
º½ÀÇ ±Í¿°µÕÀÌ¿©!
»ó±âµµ ³Ê´Â ³»°Ô
»õ°¡ ¾Æ´Ï¶ó, º¸ÀÌÁö ¾Ê´Â °Í
ÇϳªÀÇ ¸ñ¼Ò¸®¿ä, ¼ö¼ö²²³¢.
Çб³ ½ÃÀý¿¡ ±Í ±â¿ï¿´´ø
¹Ù·Î ±× ¼Ò¸®,
½£ ¼Ó°ú ³ª¹«¿Í ÇÏ´ÃÀ» ¸î ¹øÀÌ°í ¹Ù¶óº¸°Ô Çß´ø
¹Ù·Î ±× ¿ïÀ½¼Ò¸®
³Ê¸¦ ãÀ¸·Á ½£ ¼Ó°ú Ç®¹çÀ»
¾ó¸¶³ª Çì¸Å¾ú´ø°¡.
³Ê´Â ¿©ÀüÈ÷ ³»°¡ ±×¸®´Â ¼Ò¸ÁÀÌ¿ä
»ç¶ûÀ̾úÀ¸³ª ³¡³» º¸ÀÌÁö ¾Ê¾Ò´Ù.
Áö±Ýµµ µéÆÇ¿¡ ´©¿ö
³× ¼Ò¸®¿¡ ±Í ±â¿ïÀδÙ.
±× ¼Ò¸®¿¡ ±Í ±â¿ïÀ϶óÄ¡¸é
Ȳ±Ýºû ¿¾ ½ÃÀýÀÌ µ¹¾Æ¿Â´Ù.
 
¿À, Ãູ¹ÞÀº »õ¿©!
¿ì¸®°¡ ¹ß µðµò ÀÌ ¶¥ÀÌ ´Ù½Ã
²Þ °°Àº ¼±°æ(à¹ÌÑ)ó·³ º¸À̴±¸³ª.
³×°Ô ¾î¿ï¸®´Â ÁýÀÎ ¾ç.

 

O blithe new-comer! I have heard,
I hear thee and rejoice.
O cuckoo! shall I call thee bird,
Or but a wandering Voice?
 
While I am lying on the grass
Thy twofold shout I hear,
From hill to hill it seems to pass,
At once far and near
 
Though babbling only to the vale
Of sunshine and a flowers,
Thou bringest unto me a tale
Of visionary hours.
Thrice welcome, darling of the springe!
Even yet thou art to me
No bird, but and invisible thing,
A voice, a mystery
The same whom in my school-boy days
I listen's to ; that Cry
Which made me look a thousand ways
In bush, and tree, and sky
To seek thee did I often rove
Through woods and on the green
And thou wert still a hope, a love
Still long's for, never seen!
And I can listen to thee yet
Can lie upon the plain
And listen, till I do beget
That golden time again
 
O blessed Bird! the earth we pace
Again appears to be
An unsubstantial, fairy place,
That is fit home for Thee!

 

 

 

¹«Áö°³

The Rainbow

 

ÇÏ´ÃÀÇ ¹«Áö°³¸¦ º¼ ¶§¸¶´Ù
³» °¡½¿ ¼³·¹´À´Ï,
³ª ¾î¸° ½ÃÀý¿¡ ±×·¯Çß°í
´Ù ÀÚ¶õ ¿À´Ã¿¡µµ ¸ÅÇÑ°¡Áö.
½®, ¿¹¼ø¿¡µµ ±×·¸Áö ¸øÇÏ´Ù¸é
Â÷¶ó¸® Á×À½ÀÌ ³ªÀ¸¸®¶ó.
¾î¸°ÀÌ´Â ¾î¸¥ÀÇ ¾Æ¹öÁö
¹Ù¶ó³ë´Ï ³ªÀÇ ÇÏ·çÇÏ·ç°¡
ÀÚ¿¬ÀÇ °æ°ÇÇÔ¿¡ ¸Å¾îÁö°íÀÚ.
MY heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky:
So was it when my life began;
So is it now I am a man;
So be it when I shall grow old,
Or let me die!
The Child is father of the Man;
I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.