丘特切夫关于春的诗歌(三)

A SPRING STORM

I love May's first storms:

chuckling, sporting spring

grumbles in mock anger；

young thunder claps,

a spatter of rain and flying dust

and wet pearls hanging

threaded by sun-gold；

a speedy current scampers from the hills.

Such a commotion in the woods！

Noises cartwheel down the mountains.

Every sound is echoed round the sky.

You'd think capricious Hebe,

feeding the eagle of Zeus,

had raised a thunder-foaming goblet,

unable to restrain her mirth,

and tipped it on the earth.