Attached is the translation by Zha Liangzheng. His translated poems are more memorable and treasured than movies.
Ode to the Nightingale
My heart is aching, distressed and numb,
pierced into the senses, as if I had drunk a poison dove,
and as if I had just swallowed opium,
so I sank toward Les Forgets: It
is not that I am jealous of your luck,
but Your joy delights me too much—
for in the bright world of the woods,
you, light-winged fairy,
hide in the green and shadow of the beech, and
let go of your voice and sing of summer.
Hey, if only there was a sip of wine!
The alcoholic beverages that have been refrigerated underground for many years,
once you taste it, it reminds people of the green state,
flower gods, love songs, sunshine and dance!
If there were a cup of southern warmth,
full of bright red fountains of inspiration,
with pearly foam on and off the rim, and purplish
stains on the lips;
oh, I would drink and leave the world,
and go with you to hide in the dark woods:
far away land, far away, let me forget
All that you never knew among the leaves,
forget the fatigue, the fever, and the restlessness,
the world that makes one sit and lament;
where youth is pale, emaciated, dead,
and "paralyzed" with a few white hairs Swing;
here, a little thought is full of
sadness and gray despair,
and "beauty" can't keep the brilliance of bright eyes, and the
new love will wither before tomorrow.
Go! Go! I'm going to fly towards you,
without having to ride in the chariot of a leopard with Bacchus,
I'm going to spread the invisible wings of poetry,
even though the mind is tired and tired;
go! Oh, I have gone with you!
The night is so gentle, the moon is on her throne,
surrounded by a group of stars that guard her;
but it is not very bright here,
except for a ray of sky light, carried by the breeze,
green gloom, and mossy winding paths.
I can't see what kind of flowers and grasses are at my feet,
what kind of fragrant flowers hang on the branches;
in the warm darkness, I can only guess
what kind of fragrance should
be given to this fruit tree, forest, and grass,
this white citrus Flowers, roses of the fields,
violets that brittle among the green leaves,
and the coddles of mid-May,
the musk roses studded with wine,
it is a harbour for the gnats of summer nights.
I listened in the dark: oh, how many times
I almost fell in love with silent death,
I have exhausted good words in my poetry,
begging him to scatter my breath into the void;
and now, oh, how richer is death:
in the middle of the night
when you are pouring out your heart
Such ecstasy!
You will still sing, but I no longer hear it—
your funeral song can only be sung to a piece of grass.
O immortal bird, you will not die!
Hungry generations can't ravage you;
tonight, I stumble upon a song
that delighted ancient emperors and villagers;
perhaps the same song that stirred
Ruth's melancholy heart, made her weep,
standing in a foreign land. Gutian thinks of home;
it is the voice that often
drives the casement in the lost fairyland:
a beautiful woman looks at the sinister waves of the sea.
Oh, lost! This sentence is like a bell
that jolted me awake to where I was standing!
do not! Fantasy, this deceitful demon boy,
can't keep playing its rumored tricks.
do not! do not! Your complaining song
flows over the lawn, over the quiet stream, and
up the hillside; at this moment, it is
buried deep in the nearby valley:
ah, is this an illusion, or a dream?
The singing went: - am I sleeping? Are you awake?
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