原文：
The spell of the rising moon
There is a hill near my home that I often climb at night.The noise of the city is a far-off murmur.In the hush of dark I share the cheerfulness of crickets and the confidence of owls.But it’s the drama of the moonrise that I come to see.For that restores in me a quiet and clarity that the city spends too freely.
From this hill I have watched many moon rise.Each one had its own mood.There have been broad,confident harvest moons in autumn;shy ,misty moons in spring;lonely,winter moons rising into the utter silence of an ink-black sky and smoke-smudged orange over the dry fields of summer.Each ,like fine music,excited my heart and then calmed my soul.
Mon gazing is an ancient art.To prehistoric hunters the moon overhead was as unerring as heartbeat.They knew that every 29days it became full-bellied and brilliant,then sickened and died,and then was reborn.They knew the waxing moon appeared larger and higher overhead after each succeeding sunset.They knew the waning moon rose later each night until it vanished in the sunrise.To have understood the moon’s patterns from experience must be a profound thing.
But we,who live indoors,have lost contact with the moon.The glare of street lights and the dust of pollution veil the night sky.Though men have walked on the moon,it grows less familiar.Few of us can say what time the moon will rise tonight.
Still,it tugs at our minds,if we unexpectedly encounter the full moon,huge and yellow over the horizon,we are helpless but to stare back at its commanding presence.And the moon has gifts to bestow upon those who watch.
I learned about its gifts one July evening in the mountains.My car had mysteriously stalled,and I was stranded and alone.The sun had set,and I was watching what seem to be the bright-orange glow of a forest fire beyond a ridge to the east.Suddenly,the ridge itself seemed to burst into flame.Then,the rising moon,huge and red and grotesquely misshapen by the dust and sweat of the summer air,loomed up out of the woods
Distorted thus by the hot breath of earth ,the moon seemed ill-tempered and imperfect.Dogs at nearby farmhouses barked nervously,as if this strange light had wakened evil spirits in the weeds.
But as the moon lifted off the ridge it gathered firmness and authority.Its complexion changed from red,to orange,to gold,to impassive yellow.It seemed to draw light out of the darkening earth,for as it rose,the hills and valleys below grew dimmer.By the time the moon stood clear of the horizon,full-chested and round and the color of ivory,the valleys were deep shadows in the landscape.The dogs,reassured that this was the familiar moon,stopped barking.And all at once I felt a confidence and joy close to laughter.
The drama took an hour.Moonrise is slow and serried with subtleties.To watch it,we must slip into an older,more patient sense of time.To watch the moon move inexorably higher is to find an unusual stillness within ourselves.Our imaginations become aware of the vast distances of space ,the immensity of the earth and huge improbability of our own existence.We feel small but privileged.
Moonlight shows us none of life’s harder edges.Hillsides seem silken and silvery ,the oceans still and blue in its light.I moonlight we become less calculating,more dawn to our feelings.
And odd things happen in such moments.On that July night,I watch the moon for an hour or two,and then got back into the car,turned the key in the ignition and heard the engine start,just as mysteriously as it had stalled a few hours earlier,.I drove down the mountains with the moon on my shoulder and peace in my heart.
I return often to the rising moon.I am drawn especially when events crowd ease and clarity of vision into a small corner of my life.This happens often in the fall.Then I go to my hill and await the hunter’s moon,enormous and gold over the horizon,filling the night with vision.
An owl swoops from the ridge top,noiseless but bright as flame.A cricket shrills in the grass.I think of poets and musicians .Of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata,and of Shakespeare,whose Lorenzo declaims in the Merchant of Venice,“How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this blank/Here will we sit and let the sounds of music/creep in our ears”I wonder if their verse and music,like the music of crickets are in some way voices of the moon.With such thoughts,my citified confusions melt into the quiet of the night.
Lovers and poets find deeper meaning at night.We are all apt to pose deeper questions-about our origins and destinies.We indulge in riddles,rather that in the impersonal geometries that govern the day-lit world.We become philosophers and mystics.
At moon rise,as we slow our minds to the pace of the heavens,enchantment steals over us.We open the vents of felling and exercise parts of our minds that reason locks away by day.We hear,across the distances,murmurs of ancient hunters and see anew the visions of poets and lovers of long ago.
翻译：
我家附近有座小山，我常在晚间爬上山去。此时，城市的喧嚣成了遥远的低语。在这黑夜的静谧中，我尽情地分享蟋蟀的欢乐和猫头鹰的私语。不过，我上山是来看月出的，因为这可以让我的内心重新得到被城市肆意挥霍的宁静与清新。
在这座山上，我欣赏过许多次月亮升起的景象。每一次，月亮的脾性都有所不同。秋天，满月如轮，充满自信；春天，月色迷蒙，月儿羞答答的；冬天，银白色的月亮挂在墨黑的、悄无声息的夜空中，显得那样孤寂；夏天，桔黄色的月亮似被烟尘笼罩，俯瞰干燥的田野。每一种月景，都像美妙的音乐，使我心灵震撼，灵魂平静。
观月是一门古老的艺术。在远古的猎人眼里，天空中月亮变化的规律如同心跳一样准确无误。他们知道每29天，月亮就会变得饱满明亮，然后萎缩、消失，然后又再次复活。他们知道，月盈期间，每经一次日落，头顶的月亮会显得更高更大；他们还知道，月亏期间，月亮每晚的升起时间都会推迟，直到消失在日出里。他们竟能从经验中了解到月亮的变化规律，真可谓意义深远。
但我们这些深居室内的人，已与月亮失去了联系。耀眼的街灯、污浊的烟尘掩盖了夜空。虽然人类已在月球上行走过，但月亮对于我们却更加陌生了。很少有人能说出今晚月亮会何时升起。
但无论怎样，月亮依然牵动我们的心灵。如果我们偶然遇见一轮黄灿灿的硕大的满月高高挂在空中，我们都会禁不住满怀敬畏凝望她那高贵的仪容。而月亮也会向那些注视她的人赐予厚礼。
我得到她的厚礼是在山间七月的一个夜晚。我的车突然无缘无故地熄了火，我孤身一人被困在山中，束手无策。太阳已经西沉，我看见东边山脊处涌出一团桔黄色的明光，好像森林起火一般。突然，山脊自己也似乎迸射出火焰。一会儿，一轮又大又红的月亮从树林里钻了出来，夏天空气中弥漫的灰尘与湿气令它扭曲变形，显得异常怪异。

大地灼热的气息扭曲了它，它变得有些暴躁，不再完美。附近一间农舍的狗紧张地狂吠起来，似乎这团奇怪的光亮叫醒了野草丛中邪恶的幽灵。
然而当月亮缓缓从山脊处升起，它浑身聚集了坚定与威严。它的面孔 也由红色变成了桔红，又变成金色，最后变成沉静的黄色。它似乎吸收了渐渐转暗的大地的光亮，因为随着它的升起，下面的丘陵山谷变得愈来愈暗淡朦胧。等到皓月当空，满月如盘，闪耀着象牙般乳白的清辉，山谷便成了风景中一片片幽深的阴影。那些狗确信了那团光原来是它们熟悉的月亮，也安定下来，停止了吠叫。霎时间，我也觉得信心倍增，心情舒畅，几乎笑了出来。
这奇特的景观持续了一个小时。月出是缓慢的，充满着一个个微妙的变化。观看月出，我们必须重拾过去那种对时间的耐心。观看月亮不可阻挡地升上空中，会让我们的内心找到不寻常的安宁，我们的想象力能让我们看到宇宙的辽阔和大地的广袤，能让我们忘掉自己的存在。我们感到自身的渺小但又深感大自然的厚待。
月色下，我们看不到生活坚硬的棱角。山坡在月光下如同笼上了柔和的轻纱，一片银白；大海在月光下静谧而碧蓝；我们在月光下也不再像白日那般精于算计，而是更加沉醉在自己的情感中。
这种时候总会发生奇特的事情。在那个七月的夜晚，我欣赏了一两个小时的月景后，回到车里，转动钥匙点火，听到发动机居然响了起来，就像几个小时前它熄火时那样神秘而突然。我身披月光，内心平静，驱车下山回家。
我经常回到山上看月出。我沉醉其中，尤其是当接踵而来的事情使我身心疲惫、判断失准的时候。这种情况经常发生在秋天。这时我就登上那座小山，等待猎人的月亮出现，等着那金黄巨大的圆月跃出地平线，为黑夜带来光明。
一只猫头鹰从山顶俯冲下来，悄无声息地如一道火焰闪过。一只蟋蟀在草丛中长鸣。我想起了诗人和音乐家，想起了贝多芬的《月光奏鸣曲》，以及莎士比亚笔下《威尼斯商人》中洛伦佐的话：“月光沉睡在这岸边多么甜美！/我们坐在这里，让音乐之声/潜入我们的耳内。”我不知道他们的诗句和乐曲，以及蟋蟀的歌声，是否都可算作月亮的微语。想到这些，我那被喧嚣的城市扰乱了的心融化在夜的幽静之中。
我们都倾向于问一些关于生命的起源和命运的深刻问题，恋人和诗人往往在夜里能找到生活更深刻的意义。在夜里，我们沉溺于难解的谜团中，而不是那些统治着白天世界的无关个人的几何学理论。在夜里，我们都成了哲学家和神秘主义者。
月出之时，当我们放慢自己的思想，让它跟天国的节奏同步，一种心醉神迷的感觉会流遍全身。我们会打开情感的窗口，会让白天被理智锁住的那部分思绪尽情奔涌。我们能穿越时空，听见远古猎人的低语，再次看到很久以前的诗人与恋人眼中的景象。