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¹«Áö°³            Rainbow             Ãß¼öÇÏ´Â ¾Æ°¡¾¾     The Solitary Reaper
¼ö¼±È­           Daffodils             ÃÊ¿øÀÇ ºû               Splendor in The Grass
»µ²Ù±â¿¡ ºÎÃÄ To The Cuckoo   °¡¿©¿î ¼öÀÜÀÇ È¯»ó Susan

¹«Áö°³

           - Àª¸®¾Ï ¿öÁî¿öµå

                            
ÇÏ´ÃÀÇ ¹«Áö°³ ¹Ù¶óº¼ ¶§¸é
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±×·¸Áö ¾Ê´Ù¸é ³ª´Â Á×À¸¸®!

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¹Ù¶ó±â´Â ³» ¸ñ¼ûÀÇ ÇÏ·çÇÏ·ç¿©
õ¼ºÀÇ ÀÚºñ·Î½á ¸Î¾îÁö°Å¶ó.



»ç¶÷ÀÌ ¾î¸°À̵éó·³ ¼ø¼öÇÑ ¸¶À½À¸·Î
µ¹¾Æ°¡¾ß ÇÑ´Ù°í ¿ª¼³Çϰí ÀÖ´Ù.
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Â÷¶ó¸® Á×´Â °Ô ³´´Ù´Â °¨Á¤ÀÌ´Ù.



Rainbow
 
             -  William Wordsworth


My heart leaps up when I behold
  A rainbow in the sky:

So was it now I am a man,
So be it a when I shall grow old,
  Or let me die!

The Child is father of the Man:
And I could wish my days to be
Bound each by natural piety
                        
 

¼ö¼±È­

               -Àª¸®¾Ï ¿öÁî¿öµå


°ñÂ¥±â¿Í »ê À§¿¡ ³ôÀÌ ¶°µµ´Â
±¸¸§Ã³·³ ¿Ü·ÎÀÌ Çì¸Å´Ù´Ï´Ù
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Ȳ±Ýºû ¼ö¼±È­¸¦ º¸¾Ò³ª´Ï,

È£¼ý°¡ ÁÙÁö¾î ¼± ³ª¹« ¾Æ·¡¼­
¹Ìdz¿¡ ÇѵéÇѵé ÃãÀ» Ãß´©³ª.


ÀºÇÏ¿¡¼­ ¹Ý¦ÀÌ¸ç ±ôºý°Å¸®´Â
º°µéó·³ ÃÑÃÑÈ÷ ¿¬´Þ¾Æ ¼­¼­
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³¡¾øÀÌ ÁÙÁö¾î ¼­ ÀÖ¾ú³ª´Ï!

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õ ¼ÛÀÎÁö ¸¸ ¼ÛÀÎÁö ³¡ÀÌ ¾ø±¸³ª!


±× ¿·¿¡¼­ ¹°»ìµµ ÃãÀ» ÃßÁö¸¸
¼ö¼±È­ÀÇ Èﺸ´Ù¾ß ³ªÀ» °ÍÀÌ·ª.
ÀÌÅä·Ï Áñ°Å¿î ¹«¸®¿¡ ¾î¿ï¸± ¶§
½ÃÀÎÀÇ À¯ÄèÇÔÀº ´õÇØÁö³ª´Ï,

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³»°¡ Á¤¸» ¾òÀº °ÍÀ» ¾ËÁö ¸øÇß´Ù.


ÇÏ¿°¾øÀÌ Àְųª, ½Ã¸§¿¡ Àá°Ü
³ª Ȧ·Î ÀÚ¸®¿¡ ´©¿ö ÀÖÀ» ¶§
³» ¸¶À½¿¡ ±× ¸ð½À ¶°¿À¸£³ª´Ï,
ÀÌ´Â ¹Ù·Î °íµ¶ÀÇ Ãູ ¾Æ´Ï·ª,

±×·² ¶§¸é ³» ¸¶À½Àº ±â»Ý¿¡ ³ÑÃÄ
¼ö¼±È­¿Í ´õºÒ¾î ÃãÀ» Ãß³ë¶ó.
                                                                  


Daffodils

           - William wordsworth


I wonder'd lonelynas a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host, of golden daffodils;

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.


Contiuous stars that shine

And twinkle on the Milky Way,

They stretch'd in never-ending line

Along the margin of a bay:

Ten thousand saaw I at a glance,

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.


The waves beside them danced, but they

Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:

A poet could not but be gay,

In such a jocund company:

I gazed-and gazed- but little thought

What wealth the show to me had brought:


For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the daffodils.



»µ²Ù±â¿¡ ºÎÃÄ

                 - Àª¸®¾Ï ¿öÁî¿öµå


¿À, À¯ÄèÇÑ»õ ¼Õ(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 ÇѰ«
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
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»õ°¡ ¾Æ´Ï¶ó
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ÇϳªÀÇ ¸ñ¼Ò¸®¿ä, ¼ö¼ö²²³¢.


Çб³ ½ÃÀý¿¡ ±Í ±â¿ï¿´´ø
¹Ù·Î ±× ¼Ò¸®,

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¿À, Ãູ¹ÞÀº »õ¿©!

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³×°Ô ¾î¿ï¸®´Â ÁýÀÎ ¾ç.



To The Cuckoo

             - William Wordsworth


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 off, and near.


Though babbling only to the Vale,

Of Sunshine and of flowers,

Thou bringest unto me a tale

Of visionary hours.


Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring!

Even yet thou art to me

No bird, but an invisible thing,

A voice, a mystery;


The same whom in my school-boy days

I listened 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 longed 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, faery place;

That is fit home for Thee!



Ãß¼öÇÏ´Â ¾Æ°¡¾¾

               - Àª¸®¾Ï  ¿öÁî¿öµå


º¸¾Æ¶ó È¥ÀÚ ³ÐÀº µé¿¡¼­ ÀÏÇÏ´Â
Àú ¾ÆÀÏ·£µå ó³à¸¦,

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¿©±â¿¡¼­ Àá½Ã ½¬µçÁö °¡¸¸È÷ Áö³ª°¡¶ó
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Àû¸·À» ±ú¶ß¸®´Â
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À̸®µµ ¸¶À½ ¼³·¹¸®


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À½¾ÇÀº °¡½¿ ±íÀÌ ³²¾Æ ÀÖ³×



The Solitary Reaper

               - William wordsworth


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.



ÃÊ¿øÀÇ ºû

               - Àª¸®¾Ï ¿öÁî¿öµå            

                                                        
ÇÑ ¶§¿£ ±×¸®µµ Âù¶õÇÑ ºûÀ¸·Î¼­
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ÀÚ¿¬À̶ó°í ÇÑ´Ù.



Splendor in The Grass

                     - William Wordsworth


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.



°¡¿©¿î ¼öÀÜÀÇ È¯»ó

                   - ¿ö¾îÁî¿öµå


¿ìµå°¡ ¸ðÅüÀÌ¿¡, ÇØ°¡ ¶°¿À¸¦ ¶§¸é
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Áö³­ 3³â µ¿¾È ÇѰᰰ¾Ò´Ù.

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Ǫ¸¥ ¸ñÀåÀ» ±×³à´Â º»´Ù. ÀÛÀº °ñÂ¥±âÀÇ ÇѺ¹ÆÇ¿¡¼­,
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±×·¯³ª ±× ¸ðµÎ´Â »ç¶óÁø´Ù.

¾È°³µµ °­¹°µµ ¾ð´öµµ ±×´Ãµµ,
½Ã³Á¹°Àº È帣·Á ÇÏÁö ¾Ê°í, ¾ð´öµµ ¼Ú¾Æ³ª·Á µéÁö ¾Ê´Â´Ù.
¿Â°® ¾Æ·ÕÁø ºûÀÌ ¸ðµÎ ´Ù ±×³àÀÇ ´«¿¡¼­ »ç¶óÁ® ¹ö·È´Ù.



Susan

                   - William Wordsworth

 
At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears,

Hangs a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years:

Poor Susan has pass'd by the spot,and has heard

In the silence of morning the song of the bird.

Tis a note of enchantment;what ails her?

 
She sees

A mountain ascending, a vision of trees;

Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide,

And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside.

Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale

Down which she so often has tripp'd with her pail;

And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove;s,

The one only dwelling on earth that she loves.

She looks, and her heart is in heaven: but he fade,

The mist and the river, the hill and the shade;

The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise,

And the colours have all pass'd away from her eyes!
 
 

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