匆匆
作者：朱自清
燕子去了，有再来的时候；杨柳枯了，有再青的时候；桃花谢了，有再开的时候。但是，聪明的，你告诉我，我们的日子为什么一去不复返呢？——是有人偷了他们罢：那是谁?又藏在何处呢?是他们自己逃走了罢；现在又到了哪里呢?
我不知道他们咨给了我多少日子；但我的手确乎是渐渐空虚了。在默默里算着，八千多日子已经从我手中溜去；像针尖上一滴水滴在大海里，我的日子滴在时间的流里，没有声音，也没有影子。我不禁头渗鸿而泪潜潜了。
去的尽管去了，来的尽管来着，去来的中间，又怎样地匆匆呢?早上我起来的时候，小屋里射进两三方斜斜的太阳。太阳他有脚啊，轻轻悄悄地挪移了；我也茫茫然跟着旋转。于是—洗手的时候，日子从水盆里过去；吃饭的时候，日子从饭碗里过去;默默时，便从凝然的双跟前过去。我觉察他去的匆匆了，伸出手遮挽时，他又从遮挽着的手边过去，天黑时，我躺在床上，他便伶伶俐俐地从我身上跨过，从我脚边飞去了。等我睁开眼和太阳再见，这算又溜走了一日。我掩着面叹息。但是新来的日子的影儿又开始在叹息里闪过了。
在逃去如飞的日子里，在千门万户的世界里的我能做些什么呢?只有徘徊罢了，只有匆匆罢了；公在八千多日的匆匆里，除徘徊外，又剩些什么呢?过去的口子如轻烟被微风吹散了，如薄雾，被初阳蒸融了：我留着些什么痕迹呢?我何曾留着像游丝样的痕迹呢?我赤裸裸来到这世界，转眼间也将赤裸裸的回去罢?但不能平的，为什么偏要白白走这一遭啊?
你聪明的，告诉我，我们的日子为什么一去不复返呢?
1922.3.28
Rush
Zhu Ziqing
Swallows may have gone, but there is a time of return; willow trees may have died back, but there is a time of regreening; peach blossoms may have fallen, but they will bloom again. Now, you the wise, tell me, why should our days leave us, never to return? -If they had been stolen by someone, who could it be? Where could ire hide them? If they had made the escape themselves, then where could they stay at the moment?
I do not know how many days I have been given to spend, but I do feel my hands are getting empty. Taking stock silently, I find that more than eight thousand days have already slid away from me .Like a drop of water from the point of a needle disappearing into the ocean, my days are dripping into the stream of time, soundless, traceless. Already sweat is starting on my forehead, and tears welling up in my eyes.
Those that have gone have gone for good, those to come keep coming; yet in between, how swift is the shift, in such a rush? When I get up in the morning, the slanting sun marks its presence in my small mom in two or three oblongs. The sun has feet, look, he is treading on, lightly and furtively; and I am caught, blankly, in his revolution. 'Thus,--the day flows away through the sink when I wash my hands, wears off in the bowl when I eat my meal, and passes away before my daydreaming gaze as I reflect in silence. I can feel his haste now, so I reach out my hands to hold him back, but be keeps flowing past my withholding hands. In the evening, as I lie in bed, he strides over my body, glides past my feet, in his agile way. The moment I open my eyes and meet the sun again, one whole day has gone. I bury my face in my hands and heave a sigh. But the new day begins to flash past in the sigh.
What can I do, in this bustling world, with my days flying in their escape? Nothing but to hesitate, to rush. What have I been doing in that eight-thousand-day rush, apart from hesitating? Those bygone days have been dispersed as smoke by a fight wind, or evaporated as mist by the left behind any gossamer morning sun. What traces have I left behind me? Have I eve left behind any gossamer traces at all? I have come to this world, stark nakedness; am I to go hack, in a blink, in the same stark nakedness? It is not fair though: why should 1 have made such a trip for nothing!
You the wise, tell me, why should our days leave us, never to return?
March 28, 1922
