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ɩήᙕࠑ˼࿁ঘऎٙӮᆠf࿁ਫ਼֠І͟dఃᛇ                              ࢪdШ˼ۍʔτ׵࢕֢d14 ๋ࣛک৚࢕dภɪ
         ڽᎈٙ་ɛϾԊdɽऎ݊˼ਬɓᓥ੖dᐽ್Ϋ                              ɓጴऎ୵dක֐ɤϋٙݴई͛ૹf˼ίᛘཀߵ
         Ց௔ήɪdຬ৵ֆᙜٙईᏹ࿁˼ٙխఎ݅Ӯ௉                              ਷ਃɽ་ɛdThe Canterbury Tales€ѪतЬཤ݂
         ɦ૶౸d˿˼ᗭ˸תኺlਬϞ౮ω̈ऎdνΛ                              ԫණٙЪ٫௫Н๿hఐࡣ (Geoffrey Chaucer,
         ౷ᒄɛছई༦˂ૹdၾऎᛱձᗼ௡މͼd˼˙                              1342-1400) ٙЪۜܝଉա઼೯dක֐ਗ਼Іʉٙ
         ঐτԒͭնl                                            ऎɪ຾᜕ᄳϓ་ᇐd24 ๋ࣛ̈وəᙡ˥ဂණ
             ߒጫhૠ౶ിဧ (John Masefield, 1878-                (Salt Water Ballads)f1930ϋϓމߵ਷࣭ڿ་ɛf
         1967) ͛׵ߵ਷ऎԢ၅੻য়f˼ٙ˨ፋ݊ܛ                                ধਗ਼͉་ձקᙇΐ׵ܝdձɽ࢕ʱԮl



        Sea-Fever – John Masefield                         海戀
         I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and   Ң੻Ύܓ౮ω̈ऎdҳɝ֘੕ऎ˂ٙᕿ׬l
         the sky,                                          Ңซࠅٙ݊dɓጴࣻ৷ωပٙ୵৳ձˏჯμ
         And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by;  ࠱ࠬॎईٙ݋˗d
         And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the   ୲ቃૅᔷeऎࠬխᄟeͣωᛦਗd
         white sail’s shaking,                             ίϲᏸᏸᗯঝঝٙऎࠦɪᏣΈ˵ତl
         And a grey mist on the sea’s face, and a grey dawn
         breaking.
                                                           Ң੻Ύܓ౮ω̈ऎdΪމϞνຬ৵ֆᙜٙऎ
         I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the   ई͍ίխఎd
         running tide,                                     ݅Ӯ௉˲૶౸d˿ɛᗭ˸תኺ ;
         Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;  Ңซࠅٙ݊ࠬৎථಪd
         And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds   ϢϢईڀ৷סd֟νɷ਼௛જৎd
         flying,                                           ˸ʿऎᛱଂ௾޴ᎇl
         And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-
         gulls crying.
                                                           Ң੻Ύܓ౮ω̈ऎd
         I must go down to the seas again,                 νΛ౷ᒄɛছई༦˂ૹd
         to the vagrant gypsy life,                        Ңਗ਼ሸɪऎᛱձᗼ௡Б຾ٙɽ༸d
         To the gull’s way and the whale’s way where the   ίԟՅdऎࠬՐ৶dφቚνɠi
         wind’s like a whetted knife;                      Ңซࠅٙ݊dහᛓࠬሳٙ͹МൡႭ˿ɛౕҞ
         And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-
         rover,                                            ٙڽᎈԫᔴd
         And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long   ್ܝඌွɝྫྷdίဘڗٙቃ࠽ʈЪ୞əl
         trick’s over.



















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