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许荣仙

许荣仙,河北保定人, 抗日烈士子弟。 1965年毕业后分配到天津大学任教授。 天津大学德语教授潘子立的夫人。 许荣仙于2012年7月15日不幸去世。

沉痛哀悼许荣仙教授

xurongxianyoung

刘士聪教授来电:

向大家通报一件令人痛心的事情,老同学许荣仙已于昨日 (7 月15日) 清晨离我们而去,昔日同窗,多年老友,忽然作古,悲恸的心情难以形容!

荣仙因肠胃不适于五月底住进天津总医院,5 月 31 日做手术,手术进行了 8 个小时,术后一直没有离开重症监护病房。因内脏出血输了大量的血,后出现心脏肾脏衰竭现象,于昨日离世。

潘子立老师和两个孩子的意见是一切从简,只在明日上午在殡仪馆举行简单的遗体告别仪式,我们在津的 4 个人,朱柏桐,崔永禄,吴则田,刘士聪。将代表大家向荣仙告别。荣仙安息。

大家保重

刘士聪 (刘士聪教授系南开大学外语学院前院长、博导)
2012年7月16日晨

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老潘:

惊悉我们的老同学老朋友许荣仙不幸去世,我和宝银深感悲痛。我们向你致以沉痛的哀悼。我和宝银去天大北村你们家里拜访、与你和荣仙一起畅谈的情景恍如昨日,记忆犹新。这些再也不可能了。

老潘(这是我们在一起时最亲切的称呼,今天我仍然愿意这样称呼你),你在荣仙生前,尤其在最近几年荣仙病重及治疗期间,已经给她以极大的安慰和最好的治疗,万望你节哀,保重身体。

听士聪讲明天即将举行遗体告别仪式,我们远在天涯海角,痛失向荣仙做最后告别的机会,这是我们的终身遗憾。在这里我们先向荣仙的在天之灵三鞠躬!

士聪,我和宝银想求你一件事,就是请你代表我们给许荣仙精选和敬献一个花圈,署上祝宝银和我的名字。深深感谢!

东山宝银 哀泣敬启
2012年7月15日晚于纽约

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听到老同学许荣仙不幸去世的噩耗,心情非常沉重,悲恸的心情难以表达。请代我向她的爱人潘子立老师和她的两个子女转致我的诚挚慰问!

也望各位同学多保重!

李明德
2012年7月16日于北京

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惊闻老同学许荣仙已於15日清晨辞世,万分悲痛。多么好的一个人啊,说走就走了。两年前去她家玩耍时她对我的热情招待和音容笑貌仍然历历在目。荣仙辛苦一生与世无争平凡的伟大,心地善良待人友善是个真好人。荣仙一路走好。潘先生积极配合医院抢救荣仙心力憔悴,很是辛苦。他们的两个儿子也都归国看望母亲,看来她走的没有遗憾了。明天的遗体告别仪式由朱,崔,吴和你等四人代表全班同学参加,我不能亲往,还望能代我向潘先生转告,请他节哀保重。各位老同学们也多多保重。

刘秀清 2012.7.16
于北京

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惊闻老同学许荣仙因病仙去, 不胜悲痛和惋惜. 我虽然未曾与潘老师谋面, 但也请你代我向他和家人至悼和慰问. 请多保重. 同时也望各位老同学注意身体安康.

连泰
2012年7月17日于北京

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今天上午我们 6 个人,朱柏桐,王蕴茹,常耀信,崔永禄,吴则田,刘士聪代表全班同学,怀着十分怀念的心情,随同家属到天津总医院和北仓殡仪馆为许荣仙送行。仪式简单,但长年建立起来的友谊是真挚的。大家珍重。

刘士聪
2012年7月17日晚于天津

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从网上看到许荣仙先生仙逝,我亦悲痛!同时代人啊!遥祝许先生一路走好,托体同山!

淮北张天堡教授
于2012.7.19

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惊闻许荣仙离世的噩耗,十分悲痛,读信泪下,痛呼一声,我的好同学荣仙,一路走好。并请代我向荣仙的潘先生及亲属表示慰问。大家多保重。

刘唤群教授(河北师大)
于02年7月22日

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惊悉荣仙不幸病逝,深感无限悲痛,我谨怀着十分沉痛的心情致以深切的哀悼。荣仙纯朴善良,为人正直,关爱他人,和蔼可亲。勤奋学习,努力工作。相夫教子,勤俭持家,堪称楷模。晚年虽病魔缠身,遭受百般折磨,然仍顽强抗争,令人钦佩,我们将永远怀念她。

望荣仙的家人和亲朋好友节哀、保重。

老同学庞鹤云敬悼

2012年7月17日

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老高:

7月17日函敬悉,迟复,甚歉。近年虽少通音问,然时在念中,在二村陋室叙谈的情景仍清晰如昨。

感谢你和祝宝银为荣仙所做的一切。

荣仙患病期间和去世后,刘士聪谷启楠夫妇、常耀信王蕴如夫妇和朱柏桐等荣仙的同学、朋友(多人,恕不一一列名)均曾前来亲切看望,给予帮助,深切哀悼。荣仙有这么多这么好的同窗好友,此生值了!我为她深感欣慰,替她向你和所有爱护她怀念她的朋友们道一声:衷心感谢!

有时午夜梦回,伸手枕畔,摸不着她,才倏然惊觉她已去了另一世界。

斯人远逝 音容永在 我心伤悲 莫知我哀


人至悲无诗。就以这十几字送许仙吧。

望多保重。顺向祝宝银、稚妹、大铁致意。

潘子立 (天津大学德语教授)
于2012/07/28

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驚聞許榮仙同學仙逝,不勝悲痛。我對她的印象,還是她學生時代的樣子。請向她的先生和其他家人轉達我的哀思,並請他們節哀保重。

劉蜀永於香港嶺南大學
17/8/2012

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惊悉许荣仙同学辞世,我和她虽不同届,但印象还深,想不到她会英年早逝。请向她的先生转达我的哀悼。她人虽去,但著作和对人民的贡献会伴随她永垂不朽。希望他节哀。

陈水明

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惊悉许荣仙学姊仙逝,不胜悲痛!愿荣仙学姊一路走好!并请转达我们对荣仙学姊家人的深切问候!

李红杰 朱理璇 8.16

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许荣仙教授生前照片

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毕业照后排右起第二人为许荣仙,1965

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许荣仙1980年代

 

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许荣仙潘子立 1980天津

xuzhu1965
许荣仙和朱柏桐于1965

许荣仙朱柏桐
朱柏桐许荣仙,校园南门外 1965

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庞贺云许荣仙于高东山祝宝银家,early 1980s

2
左起许荣仙王蕴茹朱柏桐祝宝银, 1995年12月于天南大之间的餐厅。

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老潘荣仙潘易MrsPanyi潘迅

许

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朱柏桐许荣仙

2

许潘
老潘荣仙,07/15/2006

老潘夏以虎

许潘
荣仙老潘,10/02/2009

柏桐许
柏桐荣仙,09/19/2011

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许荣仙和朱柏桐 05/30/2012

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许荣仙和儿子潘迅 05/30/2012

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荣仙于05/08/2006

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荣仙与朱柏桐, 06/10/2006

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荣仙与朱柏桐, 06/10/2006

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荣仙与柏桐、蕴茹耀信。 05/08/2005

 

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许荣仙潘子立和梁一雄于2008,天津

许荣仙99
前排左起第二人许荣仙,第五人潘子力1999

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外文系英专65届在天津的老同学聚会2004年。前排右起第四人是许荣仙。

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wengupian
English Poet W.H.Auden (1907-1973)

auden
W.H. Auden
(This photo is in the public domain in the U.S.)

Wystan Hugh Auden (1907–1973) who signed his works W. H. Auden, was an Anglo-American poet, born in England, later an American citizen, regarded by many as one of the greatest writers of the 20th century His work is noted for its stylistic and technical achievements, its engagement with moral and political issues, and its variety of tone, form and content. The central themes of his poetry are love, politics and citizenship, religion and morals, and the relationship between unique human beings and the anonymous, impersonal world of nature.

Auden grew up in Birmingham in a professional middle class family and read English literature at Christ Church, Oxford. His early poems, written in the late 1920s and early 1930s, alternated between telegraphic modern styles and fluent traditional ones, were written in an intense and dramatic tone, and established his reputation as a left-wing political poet and prophet. He became uncomfortable in this role in the later 1930s, and abandoned it after he moved to the United States in 1939, where he became an American citizen in 1946. His poems in the 1940s explored religious and ethical themes in a less dramatic manner than his earlier works, but still combined traditional forms and styles with new forms devised by Auden himself. In the 1950s and 1960s many of his poems focused on the ways in which words revealed and concealed emotions, and he took a particular interest in writing opera librettos, a form ideally suited to direct expression of strong feelings.

He was also a prolific writer of prose essays and reviews on literary, political, psychological and religious subjects, and he worked at various times on documentary films, poetic plays and other forms of performance. Throughout his career he was both controversial and influential. After his death, some of his poems, notably "Funeral Blues" ("Stop all the clocks") and "September 1, 1939", became widely known through films, broadcasts and popular media.

Lullaby
by W.H. Auden

Lay your sleeping head, my love,
Human on my faithless arm;
Time and fevers burn away
Individual beauty from
Thoughtful children, and the grave
Proves the child ephemeral:
But in my arms till break of day
Let the living creature lie,
Mortal, guility, but to me
The entirely beautiful.

Soul and body have no bounds:
To lovers as they lie upon
Her tolerant enchanted slope
In their ordinary swoon,
Grave the vision Venus sends
Of supernatural sympathy,
Universal love and hope;
While abstract insight wakes
Among the glaciers and the rocks
The hermit's sensual ecstasy.

Certainty, fidelity
On the stroke of midnight pass
Like vibrations of a bell,
And fashionable madmen raise
Their pedantic boring cry:
Every farthing of the cost,
All the dreaded cards foretell,
Shall be paid, but from this night
Not a whisper, not a thought,
Not a kiss nor look be lost.

Beauty, midnight, vision dies:
Let the winds of dawn that blow
Softly round your dreaming head
Such a day of sweetness show
Eye and knocking heart may bless,
Find your mortal world enough;
Noons of dryness see you fed
By the involuntary powers,
Nights of insult let you pass
Watched by every human love.


Musée des Beaux Arts
by W.H. Auden

About suffering they were never wrong,
The Old Masters; how well, they understood
Its human position; how it takes place
While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along;
How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting
For the miraculous birth, there always must be
Children who did not specially want it to happen, skating
On a pond at the edge of the wood:
They never forgot
That even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course
Anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot
Where the dogs go on with their doggy life and the torturer's horse
Scratches its innocent behind on a tree.

In Breughel's Icarus, for instance: how everything turns away
Quite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman may
Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry,
But for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone
As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green
Water; and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen
Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky,
had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on.


Petition
by W.H. Auden

Sir, no man's enemy, forgiving all
But will his negative inversion, be prodigal:
Send to us power and light, a sovereign touch
Curing the intolerable neural itch,
The exhaustion of weaning, the liar's quinsy,
And the distortions of ingrown virginity.
Prohibit sharply the rehearsed response
And gradually correct the coward's stance;
Cover in time with beams those in retreat
That, spotted, they turn though the reverse were great;
Publish each healer that in city lives
Or country houses at the end of drives;
Harrow the house of the dead; look shining at
New styles of architecture, a change of heart.


In Memory Of W.B. Yeats
by W.H. Auden

I
He disappeared in the dead of winter:
The brooks were frozen, the airports almost deserted,
The snow disfigured the public statues;
The mercury sank in the mouth of the dying day.
What instruments we have agree
The day of his death was a dark cold day.

Far from his illness
The wolves ran on through the evergreen forests,
The peasant river was untempted by the fashionable quays;
By mourning tongues
The death of the poet was kept from his poems.

But for him it was his last afternoon as himself,
An afternoon of nurses and rumours;
The provinces of his body revolted,
The squares of his mind were empty,
Silence invaded the suburbs,
The current of his feeling failed; he became his admirers.

Now he is scattered among a hundred cities
And wholly given over to unfamiliar affections,
To find his happiness in another kind of wood
And be punished under a foreign code of conscience.
The words of a dead man
Are modified in the guts of the living.

But in the importance and noise of to-morrow
When the brokers are roaring like beasts on the floor of the Bourse,
And the poor have the sufferings to which they are fairly accustomed,
And each in the cell of himself is almost convinced of his freedom,
A few thousand will think of this day
As one thinks of a day when one did something slightly unusual.
What instruments we have agree
The day of his death was a dark cold day.

II
You were silly like us; your gift survived it all:
The parish of rich women, physical decay,
Yourself. Mad Ireland hurt you into poetry.
Now Ireland has her madness and her weather still,
For poetry makes nothing happen: it survives
In the valley of its making where executives
Would never want to tamper, flows on south
From ranches of isolation and the busy griefs,
Raw towns that we believe and die in; it survives,
A way of happening, a mouth.

III
Earth, receive an honoured guest:
William Yeats is laid to rest.
Let the Irish vessel lie
Emptied of its poetry.

In the nightmare of the dark
All the dogs of Europe bark,
And the living nations wait,
Each sequestered in its hate;

Intellectual disgrace
Stares from every human face,
And the seas of pity lie
Locked and frozen in each eye.

Follow, poet, follow right
To the bottom of the night,
With your unconstraining voice
Still persuade us to rejoice.

With the farming of a verse
Make a vineyard of the curse,
Sing of human unsuccess
In a rapture of distress.

In the deserts of the heart
Let the healing fountains start,
In the prison of his days
Teach the free man how to praise.


Funeral Blues
by W.H. Auden

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.


September 1, 1939
By W.H. Auden

I sit in one of the dives
On Fifty-second Street
Uncertain and afraid
As the clever hopes expire
Of a low dishonest decade:
Waves of anger and fear
Circulate over the bright
And darkened lands of the earth,
Obsessing our private lives;
The unmentionable odour of death
Offends the September night.
Accurate scholarship can
Unearth the whole offence
From Luther until now
That has driven a culture mad,
Find what occurred at Linz
What huge imago made
A psychopathic god:
I and the public know
What all schoolchildren learn,
Those to whom evil is done
Do evil in return.

Exiled Thucydides knew
All that a speech can say
About Democracy,
And what dictators do,
The elderly rubbish they talk
To an apathetic grave;
Analysed all in his book,
The enlightenment driven away,
The habit-forming pain,
Mismanagement and grief:
We must suffer them all again.

Into this neutral air
Where blind skyskrapers use
Their full height to proclaim
The strength of Collective Man,
Each language pours its vain
Competitive excuse:
But who can live for long
In an euphoric dream;
Out of the mirror they stare,
Imperialism's face
And the international wrong.

Faces along the bar
Cling to their average day:
The lights must never go out,
The music must always play,
All the conventions conspire
To make this fort assume
The furniture of home;
Lest we should see where we are,
Lost in a haunted wood,
Children afraid of the night
Who have never been happy or good.

The windiest militant trash
Important Persons shout
Is not so crude as our wish:
What mad Nijinsky wrote
About Diaghilev
Is true of the normal heart;
For the error bred in the bone
Of each woman and each man
Craves what it cannot have,
Not universal love
But to be loved alone.

From the conservative dark
Into the ethical life
The dense commuters come,
Repeating their morning vow;
'I will be true to the wife,
I'll concentrate more on my work,'
And helpless governors wake
To resume their compulsory game:
Who can release them now,
Who can reach the deaf,
Who can speak for the dumb?

All I have is a voice
To undo the folded lie,
The romantic lie in the brain
Of the sensual man-in-the-street
And the lie of Authority
Whose buildings grope the sky:
There is no such thing as the State
And no one exists alone;
Hunger allows no choice
To the citizen or the police;
We must love one another or die.

Defenceless under the night
Our world in stupor lies;
Yet, dotted everywhere,
Ironic points of light
Flash out wherever the Just
Exchange their messages:
May I, composed like them
Of Eros and of dust,
Beleaguered by the same
Negation and despair,
Show an affirming flame.


Let History Be My Judge
by W.H. Auden

We made all possible preparations,
Drew up a list of firms,
Constantly revised our calculations
And allotted the farms,

Issued all the orders expedient
In this kind of case:
Most, as was expectd, were obedient,
Though there were murmurs, of course;

Chiefly against our exercising
Our old right to abuse:
Even some sort of attempt at rising,
But these were mere boys.

For never serious misgiving
Occurred to anyone,
Since there could be no question of living
If we did not win.

The generally accepted view teaches
That there was no excuse,
Though in the light of recent researches
Many would find the cause

In a not uncommon form of terror;
Others, still more astute,
Point to possibilities of error
At the very start.

As for ourselves there is left remaining
Our honour at least,
And a reasonable chance of retaining
Our faculties to the last.


Epitaph On A Tyrant
by W.H. Auden

Perfection, of a kind, was what he was after,
And the poetry he invented was easy to understand;
He knew human folly like the back of his hand,
And was greatly interested in armies and fleets;
When he laughed, respectable senators burst with laughter,
And when he cried the little children died in the streets.

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