里尔克诗译：奥菲斯.欧律狄刻.赫尔墨斯 - Orpheus. Eurydice. Hermes
（Orpheus, Eurydike und Hermes, Camilla Nägler, watercolor）
奥菲斯•欧律狄刻•赫尔墨斯
那是深不见底的魂灵之矿
就如白银的矿脉 静静地
在庞大的黑暗中延展，血液
从根部涌出，向上 向人的世界攀升
黑暗中 它看上去坚硬如石
没有其他东西像它一样 鲜红
那里有峭壁 和
迷雾的森林，还有桥梁
横跨过深谷 那个巨大的灰色的湖泊
悬挂于深不可测的湖底
就像雨天的天空 悬挂于大地风景之上
穿过温柔无争的草地
苍白的小路铺展 如一条白色的棉布蜿蜒开去
沿着这条小路他们来了
领头的 是披着蓝色斗篷的瘦削男人
—- 沉默 焦躁 面向前方目不斜视
以贪婪的 狼吞虎咽的姿态 他的步伐
大口大口吞噬着脚下的小路 他的双手垂在身侧
紧张又沉重 悬挂于衣服褶皱之上
他已经感受不到那个精致的竖琴
早已生长于他的左臂的 就像是一支玫瑰
嫁接在橄榄树之上
他的感官仿佛已经一分为二
视觉像狗 在他的前头奔跑
停下 折回来 又匆匆离开
在小路的下一个转弯处 不耐烦地 伫立等待 —-
但是听觉 却像气味一样 在身后滞留
有时候 他感觉到它向后延伸 几乎就要碰到他们的脚步声了
那两个人 跟随着他 走在漫长的回家的路上
但是然后 又一次 那只不过是他自己脚步的回声
或者是他斗篷里的风 弄出的响动
他对自己说 他们一定跟在后面
他大声地说 听自己的话音缓缓消逝
他们一定跟在后面， 只是他们的脚步轻得
是如此的不祥 如果他能够回头
只需一次 （但是回头会摧毁一切
在如此接近成功之际）那么他一定不会
看不到他们 他一定会看到
另外的两个人 悄无声息地 跟在他的身后
旅者之神 神界与人间的信使
旅者头罩下他双目炯炯
细长的法杖伸向身前
脚踝处 小小的飞翼呼啦啦扇动
他的左臂 若即若离地 牵引着她
一个女人如此地被爱着 竖琴奏出的哀歌
比所有女人的哀歌加起来还要多
一个完整的悲痛世界升起
自然万物呈现其中：森林 山谷，
道路 村庄，田野 溪流 鸟兽
环绕着这个悲痛的世界 就像环绕着
另外的一个地球 ，有太阳运行 日出日落
和沉寂的缀满星辰的天空 ， 一个悲痛的
天空 ，有着它自己独特的 残缺的星星 —
她是如此地被深深地爱着
但是现在 她行走在优雅的神的身边
她的步履被拖拽的殓衣所牵绊
漫无目的 温顺 又耐心十足
她深深地沉浸在自我之中 如同一个孕妇
身心全部沉淀在胎儿身上
她没有看到前头行走的男人
还有 那条陡峭攀升的生命之路
深深地沉浸在自我之中 死亡
已经把她彻底充盈 就像一个果实
被自己的神秘和甜美充满
她被死的广博充斥着 这种感觉很新鲜
她无法理解这到底是怎样发生的
她来到了一个崭新的贞洁之地
无法触及 她的性觉
如一朵年幼的花 在夜色中闭合
她的双手 对婚姻是如此的不适应
就连神的引导 似有似无的碰触
也伤到了她 像一个惹人厌烦的亲吻
她已经不再是那个蓝眼睛的女人
曾经在诗人的歌声中回荡的女人
不再是婚床那个岛屿上 迷人的香气
她不再是 哪个男人的财产
她已经是散开了的长发
倾倒而下的雨水
是取之不尽的 分享之源
她已经是根 如根扎下
然后， 突然地
神伸出手拦住了她，告诉她
言语悲伤： 他回头了
她没有听明白 轻声问道：
谁？
远远的
在闪亮的出口后面的黑暗里
站着一个人或其他的什么，
他的特征无法辨认
他站在那里，看着：
草地之间的那条小路上
信息之神脸带哀伤 默默转身
跟上了那个已经沿着小路往回走的 小小身影
她的步履被拖拽的殓衣所牵绊
漫无目的 温顺 又耐心十足
～～～～～～～～～～～～～～～～～～～
俄耳甫斯
维基百科，自由的百科全书
俄耳甫斯（希臘文：?ρφε?ς；拉丁轉寫：Orpheús）是希腊神话中的一位音乐家。传说他是色雷斯人[1]，故乡是奥德里西亚王国的比萨尔提亚[2]，参加过阿耳戈英雄远征，亦以与其妻欧律狄刻的悲情故事而为人所铭记。
根据俄耳甫斯留下的诗篇，古希腊出现过一个以他為名的秘密宗教，即俄耳甫斯教。
神话
阿波罗与缪斯女神中的卡利俄珀所生，音乐天资超凡入化。他的演奏让木石生悲、猛獸驯服。伊阿宋组织阿耳戈英雄远征，去涛汹地险的黑海王国寻取金羊毛。俄耳甫斯踊跃参加，在征途中用神乐压倒了塞壬的艳迷歌声，挽救了行将触礁的征船和战友。塞壬们沮丧不堪，纷纷投海自尽。
音乐也使他痛心：寧芙歐律狄刻倾醉七弦竖琴（里拉）的恬音美乐，投入英俊少年的怀抱。婚宴中，女仙被毒蛇噬足而亡。痴情的俄耳甫斯冲入地狱，用琴声打动了冥王黑帝斯，欧律狄刻再获生机。但冥王告诫少年，离开地狱前万万不可回首张望。冥途将尽，俄耳甫斯遏不住胸中爱念，转身确定妻子是否跟随在后，却使欧律狄刻堕回冥界的无底深渊。
悲痛欲绝的少年隐离尘世，山野漂泊中遇到崇奉酒神戴歐尼修斯及醉里痴狂的一帮色雷斯女人，不幸死在她们手中。砍下的头颅虽被抛入河流，口里仍旧呼唤着欧律狄刻的名字。缪斯女神将他安葬后，七弦琴化成了苍穹间的天琴座。
～～～～～～～～～～～～～～～～
Orpheus. Eurydice. Hermes.
That was the deep uncanny mine of souls.
Like veins of silver ore, they silently
moved through its massive darkness. Blood welled up
among the roots, on its way to the world of men,
and in the dark it looked as hard as stone.
Nothing else was red.
There were cliffs there,
and forests made of mist. There were bridges
spanning the void, and that great gray blind lake
which hung above its distant bottom
like the sky on a rainy day above a landscape.
And through the gentle, unresisting meadows
one pale path unrolled like a strip of cotton.
Down this path they were coming.
In front, the slender man in the blue cloak —
mute, impatient, looking straight ahead.
In large, greedy, unchewed bites his walk
devoured the path; his hands hung at his sides,
tight and heavy, out of the failing folds,
no longer conscious of the delicate lyre
which had grown into his left arm, like a slip
of roses grafted onto an olive tree.
His senses felt as though they were split in two:
his sight would race ahead of him like a dog,
stop, come back, then rushing off again
would stand, impatient, at the path’s next turn, —
but his hearing, like an odor, stayed behind.
Sometimes it seemed to him as though it reached
back to the footsteps of those other two
who were to follow him, up the long path home.
But then, once more, it was just his own steps’ echo,
or the wind inside his cloak, that made the sound.
He said.to himself, they had to be behind him;
said it aloud and heard it fade away.
They had to be behind him, but their steps
were ominously soft. If only he could
turn around, just once (but looking back
would ruin this entire work, so near
completion), then he could not fail to see them,
those other two, who followed him so softly:
The god of speed and distant messages,
a traveler’s hood above his shining eyes,
his slender staff held out in front of him,
and little wings fluttering at his ankles;
and on his left arm, barely touching it: she.
A woman so loved that from one lyre there came
more lament than from all lamenting women;
that a whole world of lament arose, in which
all nature reappeared: forest and valley,
road and village, field and stream and animal;
and that around this lament-world, even as
around the other earth, a sun revolved
and a silent star-filled heaven, a lament-
heaven, with its own, disfigured stars —:
So greatly was she loved.
But now she walked beside the graceful god,
her steps constricted by the trailing graveclothes,
uncertain, gentle, and without impatience.
She was deep within herself, like a woman heavy
with child, and did not see the man in front
or the path ascending steeply into life.
Deep within herself. Being dead
filled her beyond fulfillment. Like a fruit
suffused with its own mystery and sweetness,
she was filled with her vast death, which was so new,
she could not understand that it had happened.
She had come into a new virginity
and was untouchable; her sex had closed
like a young flower at nightfall, and her hands
had grown so unused to marriage that the god’s
infinitely gentle touch of guidance
hurt her, like an undesired kiss.
She was no longer that woman with blue eyes
who once had echoed through the poet’s songs,
no longer the wide couch’s scent and island,
and that man’s property no longer.
She was already loosened like long hair,
poured out like fallen rain,
shared like a limitless supply.
She was already root.
And when, abruptly,
the god put out his hand to stop her, saying,
with sorrow in his voice: He has turned around —,
she could not understand, and softly answered
Who?
Far away,
dark before the shining exit-gates,
someone or other stood, whose features were
unrecognizable. He stood and saw
how, on the strip of road among the meadows,
with a mournful look, the god of messages
silently turned to follow the small figure
already walking back along the path,
her steps constricted by the trailing graveclothes,
uncertain, gentle, and without impatience.
(Translated by Stephen Mitchell)
Orpheus, Eurydice, Hermes
This was the eerie mine of souls.
Like silent silver-ore
they veined its darkness. Between roots
the blood that flows off into humans welled up,
looking dense as porphyry in the dark.
Otherwise, there was no red.
There were cliffs
and unreal forests. Bridges spanning emptiness
and that huge gray blind pool
hanging above its distant floor
like a stormy sky over a landscape.
And between still gentle fields
a pale strip of road unwound.
They came along this road.
In front the slender man in the blue cloak,
mute, impatient, looking straight ahead.
Without chewing, his footsteps ate the road
in big bites; and both his hands hung
heavy and clenched by the pour of his garment
and forgot all about the light lyre,
become like a part of his left hand,
rose tendrils strung in the limbs of an olive.
His mind like two minds.
While his gaze ran ahead, like a dog,
turned, and always came back from the distance
to wait at the next bend–
his hearing stayed close, like a scent.
At times it seemed to reach all the way back
to the movements of the two others
who ought to be following the whole way up.
And sometimes it seemed there was nothing behind him
but the echo of his own steps, the small wind
made by his cloak. And yet
he told himself: they were coming, once;
said it out loud, heard it die away . . .
They were coming. Only they were two
who moved with terrible stillness. Had he been allowed
to turn around just once (wouldn't that look back
mean the disintegration of this whole work,
still to be accomplished) of course he would have seen them,
two dim figures walking silently behind:
the god of journeys and secret tidings,
shining eyes inside the traveler's hood,
the slender wand held out in front of him,
and wings beating in his ankles;
and his left hand held out to: her.
This woman who was loved so much, that from one lyre
more mourning came than from women in mourning;
that a whole world was made from mourning, where
everything was present once again: forest and valley
and road and village, field, river and animal;
and that around this mourning-world, just as
around the other earth, a sun
and a silent star-filled sky wheeled,
a mourning-sky with displaced constellations–:
this woman who was loved so much . . .
But she walked alone, holding the god's hand,
her footsteps hindered by her long graveclothes,
faltering, gentle, and without impatience.
She was inside herself, like a great hope,
and never thought of the man who walked ahead
or the road that climbed back toward life.
She was inside herself. And her being dead
filled her like tremendous depth.
As a fruit is filled with its sweetness and darkness
she was filled with her big death, still so new
that it hadn't been fathomed.
She found herself in a resurrected
virginity; her sex closed
like a young flower at nightfall.
And her hands were so weaned from marriage
that she suffered from the light
god's endlessly still guiding touch
as from too great an intimacy.
She was no longer the blond woman
who sometimes echoed in the poet's songs,
no longer the fragrance, the island of their wide bed,
and no longer the man's to possess.
She was already loosened like long hair
and surrendered like the rain
and issued like massive provisions.
She was already root.
And when all at once the god stopped
her, and with pain in his voice
spoke the words: he has turned around–,
she couldn't grasp this and quietly said: who?
But far off, in front of the bright door
stood someone whose face
had grown unrecognizable. He just stood and watched,
how on this strip of road through the field
the god of secret tidings, with a heartbroken expression,
silently turned to follow the form
already starting back along the same road,
footsteps hindered by long graveclothes,
faltering, gentle, and without impatience.
（ German; trans. Franz Wright）