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弗罗斯特(RobertFrost)诗精选:白桦树

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Robert Frost(1874-1963),20世纪美国最杰出的诗人,作品以朴素、深邃著称,庞德、艾略特、博尔赫斯、布罗茨基等大师都对之有过相当的评价。他的一生,既不幸又充满光彩:有40岁之前的坎坷曲折,后半生的寂寞孤独,又有四获普利策诗歌奖、44种名誉学位和种种荣誉。他常常被称作美国诗坛的两面神,作品和人格遭到攻击,却又始终维持一个大诗人的和蔼形象,又是诗人、农夫和哲学家的三位一体。弗罗斯特一直通过具体的实物、情景写诗,斯蒂文斯说,你爱写实物,弗罗斯特反唇相讥,你爱写古董,这其实是诗人预先选择的精神图式和写作形式,一生几乎没有多大变化。作为以自然方式关注现实的大诗人,他对世界的态度既不像华兹华斯那样充满柔情,也不像斯蒂文斯那样粗壮、强硬,而是显得矛盾、折中,和他的精神导师爱默生一样带有超验主义。他向维吉尔学写田园牧歌,向哈代、叶芝等人学习平淡而富有暗示的语言,但用意更精深,作品常常通过时空反差的形式,也就是具体情境中的变化、对比,从而形成一个个坚固封闭却又极其开放的诗歌文本,简洁地表达出存在的真相,化腐朽为神奇。他喜欢戴着面具写作,崇尚文学的游戏原则,一开始就写得朴素含蓄,第一本诗集《男孩的意愿》(1913)就显示了过人的语言才华。虽然弗罗斯特一直戴着面具写作,但我更愿意将他称为 “一位伟大的徘徊者”。他徘徊在自然和人类、自我和事物、现实和理想之间,像被上帝驱逐的天使一样平静而又苦恼地审视着尘世生活。弗罗斯特幼年丧父,中年丧妻,老年丧子,他的坎坷人生常使他在作品中流露阴暗和悲观,但他更多是想用诗歌这种崇高的艺术形式排遣存在的焦虑和慌乱。他明智而不极端,曾在一首诗中将世界比作自己的情人,于是喋喋不休的吵闹就成为他摇曳的情思和毕生的哲学追求。他非常懂得独特是什么东西。他对现代诗歌的贡献,主要在于果断地拒绝了自由诗体(free verse)的潮流,以个人的兴趣探索出结合传统的抑扬格韵律和日常生活话语、结合古典人文情怀和现代怀疑精神的新诗体 (blank verse),看似保守,实则妙笔生花。在精神的高标和题材的深广度上,自波德莱尔以来的诗歌大师几乎无一人能和但丁相比,但弗罗斯特的探索应该说是走得最自然、最深远的,所以深受世界各国各层次读者的欢迎,在美国更是家喻户晓。弗罗斯特创作的朴素无华、寓意深刻的抒情短诗和戏剧性浓烈、艺术性高超的叙事长诗应该说经得起任何考验,无韵诗、变体十四行、双行体等各种形式的作品都有佳作,和华兹华斯一样堪称体裁大师。他自16岁写诗,一直到89岁去世,半个多世纪笔耕不辍,共出版10余本诗集,主要有《波士顿以北》(1914),《山间》(1916),《新罕布什尔》(1923),《西流的小溪》(1928),《见证树》(1942),《林间空地》(1962)等,在美国文学史上具有独特的地位,在世界文学史上也是一颗璀璨之星。然而,弗罗斯特在中国,如同余光中所说“损失惨重”,因为日常语言性的诗歌经过翻译,精华丧失殆尽。这里选译的几十首诗,表面上是弗罗斯特各个时期的创作精华,却也极有可能仍是以讹传讹。但是,通过它们,我们大致可以感受一位天才诗人的精神世界,一种对人类、对尘世生活的个性理解。它们对于中国当代诗人的写作,应该说依然具有非常重要的借鉴意义。

译者小传

徐淳刚(1975- ),蓝田猿人后裔。著有诗集、小说、哲学随笔。现居西安。

白桦树

□ 补 墙

有一种东西,可能不喜欢墙,
它在墙根下的冻土中鼓起来,
大白天的把墙上的石头摇得滚下来;
墙裂了大口子,两人并肩都能走过。
打猎的来了又是另个样子:
他们搬开一块块石头,总不放回原处,
我只好跟在他们后头不停地修补,
他们还要把兔子从藏身的地儿撵出来,
为了讨好汪汪的狗。那么大的口子
怎么有的,谁也没看见,谁也没听见
可到了春天补墙时,就在那里了。
我给住在山那边的邻居捎话说了;
有一天我们在墙下见了面,四处看了看,
在我们两家中间重新把墙补垒起来。
我们走的时候,中间隔着一道墙,
石头落在谁那边,就由谁去收拾。
它们有的像面包,有的圆得像球。
或许得念个咒才能把它们放稳当:
“老实呆着!在我们转身之前别掉下来!”
搬弄这些东西,我们的手指都磨粗了。
哦,这不过是另一种户外游戏,
一个人站一边。此外没有别的用处:
在墙那块儿,我们根本不需要墙:
他那边儿全是松树,我这边儿是苹果。
我的苹果树永远也不会翻墙过去
在他的松树底下吃松果,我就这么说。
他只是说,“好篱笆才有好邻家。”
春天让我心里挺谋乱,我就想
能不能让他顺着我的思路想:
“为什么好篱笆才有好邻家?是不是说
有牛的人家?可我们这里哪有牛。
其实,在垒墙之前,我就应该知道,
围进来的是什么,围出去的是什么,
而且我会得罪谁,歪着谁。
有一种东西,可能不喜欢墙,
它总想让墙塌。”我会对他说那是“妖精”。
但也不完全是妖精吧,我想还是
由他自己去判断。我看见他在那边
搬一块石头,两只手紧紧抓住,
像一个用石器武装自己的野蛮人。
我觉着,他是在黑暗中摸索,
这黑暗不只是来自树木和树影。
他不去推敲人老几辈说过的东西
他一想起来就感觉对着呢,
于是又说,“好篱笆才有好邻家”。

Mending Wall

Something there is that doesn"t love a wall,
That sends the frozen ground-swell under it,
And spills the upper bowlders in the sun;
And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.
The work of hunters is another thing:
I have come after them and made repair
Where they have left not one stone on a stone,
But they would have the rabbit out of hiding,
To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,
No one has seen them made or heard them made,
But at spring mending-time we find them there.
I let my neighbor know beyond the hill;
And on a day we meet to walk the line
And set the wall between us once again.
We keep the wall between us as we go.
To each the bowlders that have fallen to each.
And some are loaves and some so nearly balls
We have to use spell to make them balance:
“Stay where you are until our backs are turned!”
We wear our fingers rough with handling them.
Oh, just another kind of outdoor game,
One on a side. It comes to little more:
There where it is we do not need the wall:
He is all pine and I am apple-orchard.
My apple trees will never get across
And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.
He only say, “Good fences make good neighbors.”
Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder
If I could put a motion in his head:
“Why do they make good neighbors? Isn"t it
Where there are cows? But here there are no cows.
Before I built a wall I"d ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offense.
Something there is that doesn"t love a wall,
That wants it down!” I could say “elves” to him,
But it"s not elves exactly, and I"d rather
He said it for himself. I see him there,
Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top
In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.
He moves in darkness, as it seems to me,
Not of woods only and the shade of trees.
He will not go behind his father"s saying.
And he likes having thought of it so well
He says again, “Good fences make good neighbors.”


□ 柴 垛

阴天,我走在冰冻的沼泽中
停下脚步,心想:打这儿往回走吧;
要不,再走远点儿,这样就看到了。
大雪把我困住,就一只脚
不时还能挪动。那些细高细高的树  
将视野全划成了直上直下的线条
以致没什么能标明我是在哪儿
说不准究竟我是在这里
还是在别处:反正离家很远就是了。
一只小鸟在我面前飞。当它
飞落时总小心地跟我隔着一棵树
什么也不说,不告诉我它是谁
而我却傻傻地想着它在想什么。
它以为,我走在它后头是为了根儿毛吧——
它尾巴上白色的那根;好像一个
把什么东西都说成是自己的人。
其实,它只要飞到外面就全明白了。
然后是一垛柴,于是我就
把它给忘了,就让它那小小的恐惧
随它走吧,走那条我要走的路
我都没有对它说一声晚安。
为了获得最后的立足处,它绕到后头。
那是一堆枫木,  早已劈开剁好
很整齐地堆着, 四乘四乘八。
像这样的柴垛,我没看到第二个。
在它周围的雪地上 ,没有任何奔跑过的痕迹。
这垛柴,想必不是今年砍的
更不用说去年、前年。
柴已经变成灰色 ,皮也都剥落了
整个柴垛稍微有些下陷 。铁丝
一圈一圈牢牢扎着,像个打好的包裹。
柴垛的一头,是还在生长的小树
支撑着,另一头是斜桩和竖桩
几乎快要倒了。 我只是想 :
一定是谁要干别的事情, 才把自己
忙活好些天的东西给忘了。
费那么大劲儿砍下,没丢进炉子里烧火
却远远地留在这儿 ,让它慢慢地腐烂
无烟地燃烧,温暖这冰冻的沼泽
或许这样更好点儿。

The Wood-Pile

Out walking in the frozen swamp one grey day
I paused and said, “I will turn back from here.
No, I will go on farther--and we shall see.”
The hard snow held me, save where now and then
One foot went down. The view was all in lines
Straight up and down of tall slim trees
Too much alike to mark or name a place by
So as to say for certain I was here
Or somewhere else: I was just far from home.
A small bird flew before me. He was careful
To put a tree between us when he lighted,
And say no word to tell me who he was
Who was so foolish as to think what he thought.
He thought that I was after him for a feather--
The white one in his tail; like one who takes
Everything said as personal to himself.
One flight out sideways would have undeceived him.
And then there was a pile of wood for which
I forgot him and let his little fear
Carry him off the way I might have gone,
Without so much as wishing him good-night.
He went behind it to make his last stand.
It was a cord of maple, cut and split
And piled--and measured, four by four by eight.
And not another like it could I see.
No runner tracks in this year"s snow looped near it.
And it was older sure than this year"s cutting,
Or even last year"s or the year"s before.
The wood was grey and the bark warping off it
And the pile somewhat sunken. Clematis
Had wound strings round and round it like a bundle.
What held it though on one side was a tree
Still growing, and on one a stake and prop,
These latter about to fall. I thought that only
Someone who lived in turning to fresh tasks
Could so forget his handiwork on which
He spent himself, the labour of his axe,
And leave it there far from a useful fireplace
To warm the frozen swamp as best it could
With the slow smokeless burning of decay.


□ 割 草

树林边静悄悄,只有一点声音,
那是我的长镰在对大地低语。
它在说些什么?我不知道;
它可能说的是太阳的火热,
也可能在说四下里静悄悄——
所以才把声音压得这么低。
不梦想忙里偷闲的造化,
或仙女手中的大把黄金:
真相之外的东西或许都无力
就说这洼地中割草的爱,
很可能对准的是还未戳起的花
又惊走了绿莹莹的蛇。
事实是最甜蜜的梦只有靠出力。
我的长镰低语,离开一堆堆干草。

Mowing

There was never a sound beside the wood but one,
And that was my long scythe whispering to the ground.
What was it it whispered? I knew not well myself;
Perhaps it was something about the heat of the sun,
Something, perhaps, about the lack of sound—
And that was why it whispered and did not speak.
It was no dream of the gift of idle hours,
Or easy gold at the hand of fay or elf:
Anything more than the truth would have seemed too weak
To the earnest love that laid the swale in rows,
Not without feeble-pointed spikes of flowers
(Pale orchises), and scared a bright green snake.
The fact is the sweetest dream that labor knows.
My long scythe whispered and left the hay to make.


□ 不深也不远

人们走上沙滩
转身朝着一个方向。
他们背对着陆地
整日凝望海洋。

当一只船从远处过来
船身便不断升高;
潮湿的沙滩像明镜
映出一只静立的鸟。

也许陆地变化更多;
但无论真相在哪边——
海水涌上岸来,
人们凝望着海洋。

他们望不太深。
他们望不太远。
但有什么能够遮挡
他们凝望的目光?

Neither Out Far Nor In Deep

The people along the sand
All turn and look one way.
They turn their back on the land.
They look at the sea all day.

As long as it takes to pass
A ship keeps raising its hull;
The wetter ground like glass
Reflects a standing gull

The land may vary more;
But wherever the truth may be--
The water comes ashore,
And the people look at the sea.

They cannot look out far.
They cannot look in deep.
But when was that ever a bar
To any watch they keep?


□ 雪夜林边停歇

这是谁家的林子我清楚。
他就住在那边的村里头;
他不会知道我停在这儿
望着他的树林积满白雪。

我的小马准抱着个疑团:
干吗停在树林和冰库间?
附近既看不到一户人家
又是一年中最黑的夜晚。

他摇了摇脖子上的铃铛
好像在问出了什么差错。
除此之外,只听见微风
吹拂着毛绒绒的雪花响。

树林真好看,又黑又幽深,
但我说话要算数,
睡觉前还有多少路要赶,
睡觉前还要赶多少路。

Stopping by Woods on a snowy Evening

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound"s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promise to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

   

□ 未选择的路

金黄的树林里分出两条路,
可惜我不能都去走。
我这个过客,久久的站在那儿,
向着一条极目望去
不知道它在丛林中伸向何处;

而我选择了另一条,或许这样才公平,
说不定还有更好的理由:
因为它长满青草,召唤我去踩踏;
尽管就这一点来说,两条路
好像没什么不同。而且,

那天清晨,两条路都铺满了
落叶,未经脚印污染。
哦,就把第一条留待来日吧!
但一想到条条道路相连接,
恐怕我难以再回来。

也许多年以后在某个地方
我会轻声叹息着说起这件事:
树林中分出两条路,而我——
而我选择了人迹少的那一条,
这,就造成了天大的不同。

The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler,long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other,as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh,Ikept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
Idoubted if I should ever come back.

Ishall be telling this with a sgih
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood,and I--
Itook the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.


□ 出生地

和远处的大山相比
这边似乎没有任何希望,
父亲建造房屋,拢起泉水,
用一圈围墙锁住所有东西。
四周的地面不只长荒草,
它还养育了我们各自的生命。
我们兄弟姐妹一共十二个。
大山看起来喜欢热闹,
不久就认识了我们——
它的微笑总像包含着什么。
直到今天大山还不知道我们的名字。
(何况姑娘们已出嫁随了夫姓。)
它曾把我们推离它的怀抱。
现在它的怀里长满树木。

The Birthplace

Here further up the mountain slope
Than there was every any hope,
My father built, enclosed a spring,
Strung chains of wall round everything,
Subdued the growth of earth to grass,
And brought our various lives to pass.
A dozen girls and boys we were.
The mountain seemed to like the stir,
And made of us a little while--
With always something in her smile.
Today she wouldn"t know our name.
(No girl"s, of course, has stayed the same.)
The mountain pushed us off her knees.
And now her lap is full of trees.


□ 白桦树

弯曲,或左或右:每当我看见
白桦树穿过又直又黑的树木,
我都会想,是个小男孩在荡它们。
但是荡,不会像冰那样使它们
一直弯着。在冬天的早晨,
雨过天晴,你一定会看见白桦树
给冰压弯了。当风轻轻吹过来,
它们表面的冰块就会碎裂,发出
奇妙的喀嚓声,闪射出五颜六色。
很快,太阳会撕下它们的水晶外套,
又在冻硬的雪地上摔得粉碎——
这么一大堆碎玻璃,尽够你扫,
你还以为是天顶的华盖塌了下来。
重压,会使树枝触到地上的枯草,
但是,它们似乎不会折断,不过
一旦被压弯了,就再也直不起来;
很长时间以后,你会在树林里
看见它们还那么弯着,枝叶垂地,
好像女孩子手脚并用趴在地上
将洗过的头发甩到身后,等太阳晒干。
但我要说的是,即便这样,
白桦树弯曲是由于冰的缘故,
我也还会想:是个小男孩荡弯了它们
在他放牛来回路过的时候——
这孩子,离城太远,不能玩棒球,
那他能玩的,就只有自己的发明,
夏天、冬天,他都能自己玩个美。
他把他爸爸的白桦树当马骑,
一棵又一棵,挨个儿来征服,
直到制服了所有的白桦树,
没一棵不弯下,没留一棵还能让他
征服。他在那儿学到的全部
心得,就是爬树时不能太猴急,
这样,树就不会一下子弯到地面上。
他始终都能保持身体的平衡,
稳稳地爬向树梢,爬得小心翼翼,
就像你平时往酒杯里斟啤酒,
想来个满杯,甚至稍稍冒出点儿。
然后,他嗖地一下蹬脚跳开,
踢着双腿落下,蹲到地上来。
我过去就是这样一个荡树的孩子
现在,做梦都想回到那种日子。
那总是在我无力思考的时候,
而人生太像一座让人迷路的森林,
你的脸撞上了蜘蛛网,又痛又痒,
忽然一只眼又流泪,因为
一根小树枝在它睁着时抽了它一下。
我真想离开这人世一时半会儿,
然后再回来,重新过日子。
但愿命运这东西别误会我的意思,
只成全我心愿的一半,把我卷走
永远回不来。这人间最适合爱,
因为我不知道,还有什么更好的去处。
就让我爬上一棵白桦树离去:
攀着黑黑的树枝,沿雪白的树干直上,
直到那树再也支撑不住,
弯下来,把我重新送回到地面。
去一下又回来,这样挺好的。
人能做的事,比荡白桦树好不到哪去。

Birches

When I see birches bend to left and right
Across the lines of straighter darker trees,
I like to think some boy"s been swinging them.
But swinging doesn"t bend them down to stay.
Ice-storms do that. Often you must have seen them
Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning
After a rain. They click upon themselves
As the breeze rises, and turn many-coloured
As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.
Soon the sun"s warmth makes them shed crystal shells
Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust
Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away
You"d think the inner dome of heaven had fallen.
They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load,
And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed
So low for long, they never right themselves:
You may see their trunks arching in the woods
Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground,
Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair
Before them over their heads to dry in the sun.
But I was going to say when Truth broke in
With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm,
I should prefer to have some boy bend them
As he went out and in to fetch the cows--
Some boy too far from town to learn baseball,
Whose only play was what he found himself,
Summer or winter, and could play alone.
One by one he subdued his father"s trees
By riding them down over and over again
Until he took the stiffness out of them,
And not one but hung limp, not one was left
For him to conquer. He learned all there was
To learn about not launching out too soon
And so not carrying the tree away
Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise
To the top branches, climbing carefully
With the same pains you use to fill a cup
Up to the brim, and even above the brim.
Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish,
Kicking his way down through the air to the ground.
So was I once myself a swinger of birches.
And so I dream of going back to be.
It"s when I"m weary of considerations,
And life is too much like a pathless wood
Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs
Broken across it, and one eye is weeping
From a twig"s having lashed across it open.
I"d like to get away from earth awhile
And then come back to it and begin over.
May no fate wilfully misunderstand me
And half grant what I wish and snatch me away
Not to return. Earth"s the right place for love:
I don"t know where it"s likely to go better.
I"d like to go by climbing a birch tree~
And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk
Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,
But dipped its top and set me down again.
That would be good both going and coming back.
One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.


□ 火与冰

有人说世界将毁于火,
有人说毁于冰。
依据我个人的体验
我赞同火和倾向火的人。
但若注定要毁两次,
那么我有更深的体会
要说破坏
冰的威力同样大
说毁于冰的说了算。

Fire and Ice

Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I"ve tasted of desire
I hold with those who favour fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.


□ 树在我的窗前

树在我的窗前,
天黑我掩窗扇,
却未拉上窗帘,
于我和树之间。

我见树冠如梦,
树叶婆娑起舞,
并非高谈阔论,
显露深奥哲理。

树在暗中摇曳,
若它见我入梦,
定当见我难眠,
独自彷徨踱步。

那日命运作弄,
将我和树相连,
树知外面风雨,
我知个中变幻。

Tree At My Window

Tree at my window, window tree,
My sash is lowered when night comes on;
But let there never be curtain drawn
Between you and me.

Vague dream-head lifted out of the ground,
And thing next most diffuse to cloud,
Not all your light tongues talking aloud
Could be profound.

But tree, I have seen you taken and tossed,
And if you have seen me when I slept,
You have seen me when I was taken and swept
And all but lost.

That day she put our heads together,
Fate had her imagination about her,
Your head so much concerned with outer,
Mine with inner, weather.

  

□ 摘完苹果

梯子搭在树上,竖起两个尖
指向空荡的天,
下面,地上一只木桶
还未装满,或许
还有两三个苹果
我摘不到手。不过这会儿,
我算是摘完苹果了。
天色已晚,冬天像在催眠
苹果的香味:我已经打瞌睡了。
我擦擦眼睛,却擦不掉奇景:
这就像今天早晨,
我从水槽里揭起一层薄冰
把它举到眼前,观看一个
白霜压草的世界。
冰化了,我由它掉下、粉碎
可是,在它掉下之前,
我早已昏昏然,快要入睡。
我还说得出,那是
怎样的一个梦:
膨胀得好大的苹果,忽隐忽现,
一会在枝头,一会在花间,
红褐色的斑点,清清楚楚。
好酸痛呀我的脚板
梯子的横档一直顶着它们。
树枝弯下时,梯子好像也在摇晃。
一声声轰隆,那是
一堆堆苹果正往地窖里送。
我不知道自己摘过多少次苹果了
早已厌倦了所谓的收成。
成千上万的苹果,伸手就能摘到,
需要轻轻拿,轻轻放
就是不能掉地上,因为一掉地,
即使没碰伤,没扎破,
也只好送给人家,去做酒,
算是白忙活了。
可见,打扰我瞌睡的是什么,
不管这算不算瞌睡。
如果土拨鼠还未走远,
听我讲睡梦怎样来到我身边,
它就会告诉我,这像不像
它的睡眠,
或者,这不过是人的睡眠。

After Apple-Picking

My long two-pointed ladder"s sticking through a tree
Toward heaven still,
And there"s a barrel that I didn"t fill
Beside it, and there may be two or three
Apples I didn"t pick upon some bough.
But I am done with apple-picking now.
Essence of winter sleep is on the night,
The scent of apples: I am drowsing off.
I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight
I got from looking through a pane of glass
I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough
And held against the world of hoary grass.
It melted, and I let it fall and break.
But I was well
Upon my way to sleep before it fell,
And I could tell
What form my dreaming was about to take.
Magnified apples appear and disappear,
Stem end and blossom end,
And every fleck of russet showing dear.
My instep arch not only keeps the ache,
It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round.
I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend.
And I keep hearing from the cellar bin
The rumbling sound
Of load on load of apples coming in.
For I have had too much
Of apple-picking: I am overtired
Of the great harvest I myself desired.
There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch,
Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall.
For all
That struck the earth,
No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble,
Went surely to the cider-apple heap
As of no worth.
One can see what will trouble
This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is.
Were he not gone,
The woodchuck could say whether it"s like his
Long sleep, as I describe its coming on,
Or just some human sleep.


□ 一只小鸟

我希望一只鸟能够走开,
不要整天在我门前歌唱;

我一旦似乎不能再忍受,
就会从门口向它拍拍手。

过错有几分是在我这边。
鸟自己的曲调无可指责。

当然这里面一定有问题。
或许希望总使歌声停止。

A Minor Bird

I have wished a bird would fly away,
And not sing by my house all day;

Have clapped my hands at him from the door
When it seemed as if I could bear no more.

The fault must partly have been in me.
The bird was not to blame for his key.

And of course there must be something wrong
In wanting to silence any song.


□ 城中小溪

农场还在那里,虽不愿和
城市街道相同,却不得不戴上
一个门牌号码。那像肘状
绕过房子的小溪怎样了呢?
我如同一个了解小溪的人问着,
它的力量和冲动,我曾将手指
浸入水中,让它从指缝中流过,
将花朵掷进去测试它的涌流。
还在生长的蓝草,或许已被水泥
固定在城中的人行道上;
苹果树被送进炉底的火焰中。
湿木材会不会同样服务于溪水?
此外该怎样处置那不再需要的
永久性力量?将大量的垃圾废品倾倒
在源头,使其止住?溪流翻滚
跌入石头下面幽深的下水道
在恶臭与黑暗中依然存在、涌流——
它做这些,也许并不为别的
什么,只是为了忘记恐惧。
除了远古地图没谁会知道
一条如此流动的小溪。但我怀疑
它是否想永远呆在下面,而不显现
曾经奔流的身影,使这新建的
城市,既不能工作也无法入眠。

A Brook in the City

The firm house lingers, though averse to square
With the new city street it has to wear A number in.
But what about the brook
That held the house as in an elbow-crook?
I ask as one who knew the brook, its strength
And impulse, having dipped a finger length
And made it leap my knuckle, having tossed
A flower to try its currents where they crossed.
The meadow grass could be cemented down
From growing under pavements of a town;
The apple trees be sent to hearth-stone flame.
Is water wood to serve a brook the same?
How else dispose of an immortal force
No longer needed? Staunch it at its source
With cinder loads dumped down? The brook was
thrown Deep in a sewer dungeon under stone
In fetid darkness still to live and run -
And all for nothing it hd ever done
Except forget to go in fear perhaps.
No one would know except for ancient maps
That such a brook ran water. But I wonder
If from its being kept forever under
The thoughts may not have risen that so keep
This new-built city from both work and sleep.


□ 闲谈时间

当一位朋友在路上喊我
而且减慢了马儿意味深长的步伐,
在那无人注意的小山上
我并没有停手四处张望
只是埋头应了声:“干什么?”
不,这里没有工夫闲谈。
我将锄头插入松土,
刃底立起足有五英尺,
然后缓慢地走开了,去石墙那边
为了一个人来这儿坐坐。

A Time to Talk

When a friend calls to me from the road
And slows his horse to a meaning walk,
I don"t stand still and look around
On all the hills I haven"t hoed,
And shout from where I am, "What is it?
No, not as there is a time talk.
I thrust my hoe in the mellow ground,
Blade-end up and five feet tall,
And plod:I go up to the stone wall
For a friendly visit.

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