Listen to the rain

从一大早就下起雨来。下雨，本来不是什么稀罕事儿，但这是春雨，俗话说：“春雨贵似油。”而且又在罕见的大旱之中，其珍贵就可想而知了。

“润物细无声”，春雨本来是声音极小极小的，小到了“无”的程度。但是，我现在坐在隔成了一间小房子的阳台上，顶上有块大铁皮。楼上滴下来的檐溜就打在这铁皮上，打出声音来，于是就不“细无声”了。按常理说，我坐在那里，同一种死文字拼命，本来应该需要极静极静的环境，极静极静的心情，才能安下心来，进入角色，来解读这天书般的玩意儿。这种雨敲铁皮的声音应该是极为讨厌的，是必欲去之而后快的。

然而，事实却正相反。我静静地坐在那里，听到头顶上的雨滴声，此时有声胜无声，我心里感到无量的喜悦，仿佛饮了仙露，吸了醍醐，大有飘飘欲仙之概了。这声音时慢时急，时高时低，时响时沉，时断时续，有时如金声玉振，有时如黄钟大吕，有时如大珠小珠落玉盘，有时如红珊白瑚沉海里，有时如弹素琴，有时如舞霹雳，有时如百鸟争鸣，有时如兔落鹘起，我浮想联翩，不能自已，心花怒放，风生笔底。死文字仿佛活了起来，我也仿佛又溢满了青春活力。我平生很少有这样的精神境界，更难为外人道也。

在中国，听雨本来是雅人的事。我虽然自认还不是完全的俗人，但能否就算是雅人，却还很难说。我大概是介乎雅俗之间的一种动物吧。中国古代诗词中，关于听雨的作品是颇有一些的。顺便说上一句：外国诗词中似乎少见。我的朋友章用回忆表弟的诗中有：“频梦春池添秀句，每闻夜雨忆联床。”是颇有一点诗意的。连《 红楼梦 》中的林妹妹都喜欢李义山的“留得残荷听雨声”之句。最有名的一首听雨的词当然是宋蒋捷的“虞美人”，词不长，我索性抄它一下：

少年听雨歌楼上，红烛昏罗帐。壮年听雨客舟中，江阔云低，断雁叫西风。而今听雨僧庐下，鬓已星星也。悲欢离合总无情，一任阶前,点滴到天明。

蒋捷听雨时的心情，是颇为复杂的。他是用听雨这一件事来概括自己的一生的，从少年、壮年一直到老年，达到了“悲欢离合总无情”的境界。但是，古今对老的概念，有相当大的悬殊。他是“鬓已星星也”，有一些白发，看来最老也不过五十岁左右。用今天的眼光看，他不过是介乎中老之间，用我自己比起来，我已经到了望九之年，鬓边早已不是“星星也”，顶上已是“童山濯濯”了。要讲达到“悲欢离合总无情”的境界，我比他有资格。我已经能够“纵浪大化中，不喜亦不惧”了。

可我为什么今天听雨竟也兴高采烈呢？这里面并没有多少雅味，我在这里完全是一个“俗人”。我想到的主要是麦子，是那辽阔原野上的青春的麦苗。我生在乡下，虽然六岁就离开，谈不上干什么农活，但是我拾过麦子，捡过豆子，割过青草，劈过高粱叶。我血管里流的是农民的血，一直到今天垂暮之年，毕生对农民和农村怀着深厚的感情。农民最高希望是多打粮食。天一旱，就威胁着庄稼的成长。即使我长期住在城里，下雨一少，我就望云霓，自谓焦急之情，决不下于农民。北方春天，十年九旱。今年似乎又旱得邪行。我天天听天气预报，时时观察天上的云气。忧心如焚，徒唤奈何。在梦中也看到的是细雨。

今天早晨，我的梦竟实现了。我坐在这长宽不过几尺的阳台上，听到头顶上的雨声，不禁神驰千里，心旷神怡。在大大小小高高低低，有的方正有的歪斜的麦田里，每一个叶片都仿佛张开了小嘴，尽情地吮吸着甜甜的雨滴，有如天降甘露，本来有点黄萎的，现在变青了。本来是青的，现在更青了。宇宙间凭空添了一片温馨，一片祥和。

我的心又收了回来，收回到了燕园，收回到了我楼旁的小山上，收回到了门前的荷塘内。我最爱的二月兰正在开着花。它们拼命从泥土中挣扎出来，顶住了干旱，无可奈何地开出了红色的白色的小花，颜色如故，而鲜亮无踪，看了给人以孤苦伶仃的感觉。在荷塘中，冬眠刚醒的荷花，正准备力量向水面冲击。水当然是不缺的。但是，细雨滴在水面上，画成了一个个的小圆圈，方逝方生，方生方逝。这本来是人类中的诗人所欣赏的东西，小荷花看了也高兴起来，劲头更大了，肯定会很快地钻出水面。

我的心又收近了一层，收到了这个阳台上，收到了自己的腔子里，头顶上叮当如故，我的心情怡悦有加。但我时时担心，它会突然停下来。我潜心默祷，祝愿雨声长久响下去，响下去，永远也不停。

It began to rain early in the morning. Rain, was not a rare thing, but this is the spring rain, as the saying goes: "spring rain expensive like oil." and in the rare drought, its precious can be imagined.

"moisten things quietly", the spring rain was originally a very small voice, small to the extent of "No". But now I'm sitting on the balcony of a small house with a big piece of tin on top. The eaves dripping from the upper floor hit the iron sheet, making a sound, so it is not "silent.". Normally, I'm sitting there, struggling with the same dead text, and it's supposed to take a very, very quiet environment, a very, very quiet mood, to settle down, to get into character, to read this gobbledygook. The sound of the rain beating on the tin sheet should be extremely annoying, and it is necessary to go and then quickly.

however, the fact is the opposite. As I sat there quietly, listening to the sound of the rain on my head, I felt a great joy in my heart, as if I had drunk the dew and received the blow of my Spun. It waxes and wanes, it waxes and wanes, it waxes and wanes, it waxes and waxes, it waxes and wanes like a golden bell, it waxes and wanes like a yellow bell, it waxes and wanes like a pearl falling on a jade plate, it waxes and wanes like a red coral sinking in the sea, it waxes and wanes like a harp, sometimes it was like a break dance, sometimes it was like a hundred birds singing, sometimes it was like a rabbit falling in the river, I couldn't help thinking, I couldn't help thinking, Someone Like You, writing in style. Dead words seem to come to life, I also seem to be full of youthful vitality. I have rarely had such a spiritual realm in my life, more difficult for outsiders also.

in China, listening to rain is originally a matter of the elegant people. Although I do not consider myself a complete philistine, but whether it can even be a refined person, it is hard to say. I guess I'm something in between. In ancient Chinese poetry, there are quite a few works about listening to rain. By the way: foreign poetry seems to be rare. My friend Zhang recalled my cousin's poem with: "Often Dream Spring Pond Tim Xiu sentence, every night rain memories of the bed." It is quite a bit of poetry. Even sister Lin in "a dream of red mansions" likes Li Yishan's "left to listen to the rain," the sentence. The most famous song of listening to rain is of course song Jiang Jie's "Yu Mei Ren", the word is not long, I simply copy it:

< p > < p > young listening to rain song upstairs, red candle faint Luo account. Listen to the middle of the boat, Jiangkuoyun Low, broken wild goose called the West Wind. Now listen to the rain monk Lu, temples have stars also. Joys and sorrows of the total ruthless, a step before, drops to the dawn. Jiang Jie's mood when listening to the rain was rather complicated. He is to listen to the rain this thing to sum up his life, from the juvenile, the prime of life until the old age, to reach the "sad and happy, the total ruthless" state. However, the ancient and modern concept of the old, there is a considerable disparity. He was already a star at the temples, with some white hair, and seemed to be no older than fifty or so. In today's eyes, he is only between middle-aged and old, compared with myself, I have reached the age of nine, the temples are no longer "stars", the top has been "Childe Mountain". I am more qualified than he to speak of reaching the state of "the total ruthlessness of joys and sorrows". I have been able to "Ride the wave, don't like it, don't fear it". But why am I so happy to hear the rain today? There is not much elegance in it. I am a mere "Philistine" here. I thought chiefly of wheat, the young shoots of wheat in the open country. I was born in the country, and though I left at the age of six, I did not do much farm work, but I picked wheat, picked beans, cut grass, and split sorghum leaves. In my blood stream is the blood of farmers, until today at the end of the year, a lifetime of farmers and the countryside with deep feelings. The farmer's best hope is to get more grain. A drought threatens the growth of crops. Even if I live in the city for a long time, when it rains less, I look at the clouds and say that I am anxious, no less than farmers. Spring in the north, nine years of drought. This year, it looks like another drought. I listen to the weather forecast every day and keep an eye on the clouds. I'm so worried, I can't help it. And in my dreams, I see the drizzle. This Morning, my dream came true. I sit on this length and width of just a few feet balcony, hear the overhead rain, can not help galloping miles, relaxed and happy. In the wheat fields, high and low, big and small, some square and some askew, each leaf seemed to open its mouth, sucking the sweet rain as if it were manna from heaven, it's bluish now. It was green, but now it's even bluer. The universe has added a warm and peaceful atmosphere. My heart was drawn back, back to the garden, back to the hill next to my building, back to the lotus pond in front of the door. My favorite February orchid is in bloom. They struggled out of the soil, withstand the drought, helpless to open out of the red and white flowers, color as usual, and bright, to see a person with a feeling of loneliness. In the lotus pond, the newly awakened Lotus from its winter sleep is preparing to strike the surface of the water. There's no shortage of water. But, the drizzle on the water, painted a small circle, Fang Shi Fang Sheng, Fang Sheng Fang Shi. This is the poet of the human appreciation of things, small lotus see also happy, more energetic, will certainly soon drill out of the water. My heart closed a layer, received the balcony, received his own cavity, the top of the head jingling, my mood is happy. But I was always afraid it would suddenly stop. I pray with all my heart that the sound of the rain will last forever.

标题: 听雨
作者: 季羡林
字数: 1699
简介: 从一大早就下起雨来。下雨，本来不是什么稀罕事儿，但这是春雨，俗话说：“春雨贵似油。”而且又在罕见的大旱之中，其珍贵就可想而知了。 “润物细无