曲曲折折的荷塘上面,彌望的是田田的葉子。葉子出水很高,像亭亭的舞女的裙。層層的葉子中間,零星地點綴著些白花,有裊娜地開著的,有羞澀地打著朵兒的;正如一粒粒的明珠,又如碧天里的星星,又如剛出浴的美人。微風過處,送來縷縷清香,仿佛遠處高樓上渺茫的歌聲似的。這時候葉子與花也有一絲的顫動,像閃電般,霎時傳過荷塘的那邊去了。葉子本是肩并肩密密地挨著的,這便宛然有了一道凝碧的波痕。葉子底下是脈脈的流水,遮住了,不能見一些顏色;而葉子卻更見風致了。
(摘自 朱自清《河塘月色》)
參考譯文
All over this winding stretch of water, what meets the eye is a silken field of leaves, reaching rather high above the surface, like the skirts of dancing girls in all their grace. Here and there, layers of leaves are dotted with white lotus blossoms, some in demure bloom, others in shy bud, like scattering pearls, or twinkling stars, our beauties just out of the bath. A breeze stirs, sending over breaths of fragrance, like faint singing drifting from a distant building. At this moment, a tiny thrill shoots through the leaves and flowers, like a streak of lightning, straight across the forest of lotuses. The leaves, which have been standing shoulder to shoulder, are caught trembling in an emerald heave of the pond. Underneath, the exquisite water is covered from view, and none can tell its color; yet the leaves on top project themselves all the more attractively.