秋夜 —魯迅
在我的后園，可以看見墻外有兩株樹，一株是棗樹，還有一株也是棗樹。
這上面的夜的天空，奇怪而高，我生平?jīng)]有見過這樣奇怪而高的天空。他仿佛要離開人間而去，使人們仰面不再看見。然而現(xiàn)在卻非常之藍(lán)，閃閃地〖目夾〗著幾十個(gè)星星的眼，冷眼。他的口角上現(xiàn)出微笑，似乎自以為大有深意，而將繁霜灑在我的園里的野花草上。
我不知道那些花草真叫什么名字，人們叫他們什么名字。我記得有一種開過極細(xì)小的粉紅花，現(xiàn)在還開著，但是更極細(xì)小了，她在冷的夜氣中，瑟縮地做夢(mèng)，夢(mèng)見春的到來，夢(mèng)見秋的到來，夢(mèng)見瘦的詩人將眼淚擦在她最末的花瓣上，告訴她秋雖然來，冬雖然來，而此后接著還是春，胡蝶亂飛，蜜蜂都唱起春詞來了。她于是一笑，雖然顏色凍得紅慘慘地，仍然瑟縮著。
棗樹，他們簡(jiǎn)直落盡了葉子。先前，還有一兩個(gè)孩子來打他們別人打剩的棗子，現(xiàn)在是一個(gè)也不剩了，連葉子也落盡了。他知道小粉紅花的夢(mèng)，秋后要有春；他也知道落葉的夢(mèng)，春后還是秋。他簡(jiǎn)直落盡葉子，單剩干子，然而脫了當(dāng)初滿樹是果實(shí)和葉子時(shí)候的弧形，欠伸得很舒服。但是，有幾枝還低亞著，護(hù)定他從打棗的竿梢所得的皮傷，而最直最長的幾枝，卻已默默地鐵似的直刺著奇怪而高的天空，使天空閃閃地鬼〖目夾〗眼；直刺著天空中圓滿的月亮，使月亮窘得發(fā)白。
鬼〖目夾〗眼的天空越加非常之藍(lán)，不安了，仿佛想離去人間，避開棗樹，只將月亮剩下。然而月亮也暗暗地躲到東邊去了。而一無所有的干子，卻仍然默默地鐵似的直刺著奇怪而高的天空，一意要制他的死命，不管他各式各樣地〖目夾〗著許多蠱惑的眼睛。
哇的一聲，夜游的惡鳥飛過了。
我忽而聽到夜半的笑聲，吃吃地，似乎不愿意驚動(dòng)睡著的人，然而四圍的空氣都應(yīng)和著笑。夜半，沒有別的人，我即刻聽出這聲音就在我嘴里，我也即刻被這笑聲所驅(qū)逐，回進(jìn)自己的房。燈火的帶子也即刻被我旋高了。
后窗的玻璃上丁丁地響，還有許多小飛蟲亂撞。不多久，幾個(gè)進(jìn)來了，許是從窗紙的破孔進(jìn)來的。他們一進(jìn)來，又在玻璃的燈罩上撞得丁丁地響。一個(gè)從上面撞進(jìn)去了，他于是遇到火，而且我以為這火是真的。兩三個(gè)卻休息在燈的紙罩上喘氣。那罩是昨晚新?lián)Q的罩，雪白的紙，折出波浪紋的疊痕，一角還畫出一枝猩紅色的梔子。
猩紅的梔子開花時(shí)，棗樹又要做小粉紅花的夢(mèng)，青蔥地彎成弧形了……我又聽到夜半的笑聲；我趕緊砍斷我的心緒，看那老在白紙罩上的小青蟲，頭大尾小，向日葵子似的，只有半粒小麥那么大，遍身的顏色蒼翠得可愛，可憐。
我打一個(gè)呵欠，點(diǎn)起一支紙煙，噴出煙來，對(duì)著燈默默地敬奠這些蒼翠精致的英雄們。
一九二四年九月十五日。
注：《秋夜》是魯迅散文集《野草》中的一篇散文
Autumn Night
Lu Xun
Behind the wall of my backyard you can see two trees: one is a date tree, the other is also a date tree.
The night sky above them is strange and high. I have never seen such a strange, high sky. It seems to want to leave this world of men, so that when folk look up they won‘t be able to see it. For the moment, though, it is singularly blue; and its scores of starry eyes are blinking coldly. A faint smile plays round its lips, a smile which it seems to think highly significant; and it dusts the wild plants in my courtyard with heavy frost.
I have no idea what these plants are called, what names they are commonly known by. One of them, I remember, has minute pink flowers, and its flowers are still lingering on, although more minute than ever. Shivering in the cold night air they dream of the coming of spring, of the coming of autumn, of the lean poet wiping his tears upon their last petals, who tells them autumn will come and winter will come, yet spring will follow when butterflies flit to and fro, and all the bees start humming songs of spring. Then the little pink flowers smile, though they have turned a mournful crimson with cold and are shivering still.
As for the date trees, they have lost absolutely all their leaves. Before, one or two boys still came to beat down the dates other people had missed. But now not one date is left, and the trees have lost all their leaves as well. They know the little pink flowers‘ dream of spring after autumn; and they know the dream of the fallen leaves of autumn after spring. They may have lost all their leaves and have only their branches left; but these, no longer weighed down with fruit and foliage, are stretching themselves luxuriously. A few boughs, though, are still drooping, nursing the wounds made in their bark by the sticks which beat down the dates; while, rigid as iron, the straightest and longest boughs silently pierce the strange, high sky, making it blink in dismay. They pierce even the full moon in the sky, making it pale and ill at ease.
Blinking in dismay, the sky becomes bluer and bluer, more and more uneasy, as if eager to escape from the world of men and avoid the date trees, leaving the moon behind. But the moon, too, is hiding itself in the east; while, silent still and as rigid as iron, the bare boughs pierce the strange, high sky, resolved to inflict on it a mortal wound, no matter in how many ways it winks all its bewitching eyes.
With a shriek, a fierce night-bird passes.
All of a sudden, I hear midnight laughter. The sound is muffled, as if not to wake those who sleep; yet all around the air resounds to this laughter. Midnight, and no one else is by. At once I realize it is I who am laughing, and at once I am driven by this laughter back to my room. At once I turn up the wick of my paraffin lamp.
A pit-a-pat sounds from the glass of the back window, where swarms of insects are recklessly dashing themselves against the pane. Presently some get in, no doubt through a hole in the window paper. Once in, they set up another pit-a-pat by dashing themselves against the chimney of the lamp. One hurls itself into the chimney from the top, falling into the flame, and I fancy the flame is real. On the paper shade two or three others rest, panting. The shade is a new one since last night. Its snow white paper is pleated in wave-like folds, and painted in one corner is a spray of blood-red gardenias.
When the blood-red gardenias blossom, the date trees, weighed down with bright foliage, will dream once more the dream of the little pink flowers and I shall hear the midnight laughter again. I hastily break off this train of thought to look at the small green insects still on the paper. Like sunflower seeds with their large heads and small tails, they are only half the size of a grain of wheat, the whole of them an adorable, pathetic green.
I yawn, light a cigarette, and puff out the smoke, paying silent homage before the lamp to these green and exquisite heroes.
September 15, 1924.
