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。
不锁之门
□ 下 种
今晚你来叫我停下
说饭菜已上桌，我们将看看
我是否能停止掩埋这白嫩的
从苹果树上掉落的花瓣。
（柔软的花瓣，并非无益
它们可以和那或光或皱的豆子做伴；）
和你回家之前，或许你已忘了
你来干什么，变得和我一样，
成为春日大地上一个热情的奴仆。
如此用心地种下种子
等待它们破土而出
也正是杂草生长、遮蔽的时候，
弓着倔强的身子钻出
顶开它的路，抖落身上的土。
Putting in the Seed
You come to fetch me from my work to-night
When supper"s on the table, and we"ll see
If I can leave off burying the white
Soft petals fallen from the apple tree.
(Soft petals, yes, but not so barren quite,
Mingled with these, smooth bean and wrinkled pea;)
And go along with you ere you lose sight
Of what you came for and become like me,
Slave to a springtime passion for the earth.
How Love burns through the Putting in the Seed
On through the watching for that early birth
When, just as the soil tarnishes with weed,
The sturdy seedling with arched body comes
Shouldering its way and shedding the earth crumbs.
□ 进 来
当我走到树林边，
鸫鸟的音乐——听啊！
如果这时外面还亮点，
里面已是黑暗。
树林太黑暗，对一只鸟
它用翅膀的灵活
改善夜晚栖息的法则，
不过它依然要唱歌。
落日最后的一丝光线
正在西天死去，
却仍残活下来倾听着
鸫鸟胸中的歌。
远在那隐约的黑暗中
鸫鸟的歌声还在——
几乎像一声“进来”
带着黑暗和悲哀。
想得美，我出来看星星；
才不“进来”呢。
就是邀请我也不；
何况没请我。
Come In
As I came to the edge of the woods,
Thrush music -- hark!
Now if it was dusk outside,
Inside it was dark.
Too dark in the woods for a bird
By sleight of wing
To better its perch for the night,
Though it still could sing.
The last of the light of the sun
That had died in the west
Still lived for one song more
In a thrush"s breast.
Far in the pillared dark
Thrush music went --
Almost like a call to come in
To the dark and lament.
But no, I was out for stars;
I would not come in.
I meant not even if asked;
And I hadn"t been.
□ 沙 丘
海浪是绿色的潮湿的
但在它们平息的处所，
依然卷着更大的浪涛
而且是褐色的干燥的。
那是变成沙丘的海洋
涌进渔夫栖息的村镇，
想用坚硬的沙子掩埋
海水不能淹死的人们。
海或许了解自身远近
但却藉由变化的规律，
希望从自己的思想中
将这里的人永远抹去。
人们留给它一条小船
供它摇晃甚至去吞没；
他们离开房屋将想着
如同抛弃无用的贝壳。
Sand Dunes
Sea waves are green and wet,
But up from where they die,
Rise others vaster yet,
And those are brown and dry.
They are the sea made land
To come at the fisher town,
And bury in solid sand
The men she could not drown.
She may know cove and cape,
But she does not know mankind
If by any change of shape,
She hopes to cut off mind.
Men left her a ship to sink:
They can leave her a hut as well;
And be but more free to think
For the one more cast-off shell.
□ 密 坐
我们转着圈地跳舞并猜测，
奥秘坐在中间什么都知道。
The Secret Sits
We dance round in a ring and suppose,
But the Secret sits in the middle and knows.
□ 圈 套
我看见一只丑肥的蜘蛛，浑身白亮，
在一朵白色的万灵草上，捉住了一只
似一片素缎子布料的白飞蛾——
被揉和在一起的死亡和摧残的气息
交叉混同，等待迎接黎明，
如同一个巫女的肉汤配料——
一只雪白的蜘蛛，一朵泡沫般的花，
死寂的双翅，似摇摇欲坠的风筝。
哦，为什么那朵花会是白色的，
而路边的万灵草却绽放着淡淡的蓝？
究竟是什么让蜘蛛爬上那株草，
再趁着黑漆漆的夜色把白飞蛾招来？
难道这黎明前的圈套不让人恐惧？
无处不在的圈套连一条小命都不放过。
Design
I found a dimpled spider, fat and white,
On a white heal-all, holding up a moth
Like a white piece of rigid satin cloth--
Assorted characters of death and blight
Mixed ready to begin the morning right,
Like the ingredients of a witches" broth--
A snow-drop spider, a flower like a froth,
And dead wings carried like a paper kite.
What had that flower to do with being white,
The wayside blue and innocent heal-all?
What brought the kindred spider to that height,
Then steered the white moth thither in the night?
What but design of darkness to appall?
If design govern in a thing so small.
□ 黑夜的知己
我以为我早就熟悉这黑夜。
我冒雨出去，又冒雨回来。
我已越出街灯照亮的边界。
我看到城中的小巷最悲惨。
我经过敲更的守夜人身边，
我不愿多讲，低垂下眼帘。
我停住，脚步再也听不见，
从另一条街升起越过屋顶
传来一声好似折断的哭喊，
那不是叫我回去或说再见；
在更远、远离尘世的高处，
有一座钟悬着，一闪一闪，
它宣称时间不错又不正确，
我以为我早就熟悉这黑夜。
Acquainted with the night
I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain --and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.
I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.
I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,
But not to call me back or say good-bye;
And further still at an unearthly height
One luminary clock against the sky
Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night.
□ 黑暗中的门
黑暗中从这房间到那房间，
我盲目地举着手，护着脸，
却忘了交叉十指，伸出手，
让我的双臂拢成—个弧度。
突然！一道小门撞了过来，
照着我的脑门子狠狠一击，
甚至，连这个比喻也撞碎。
如此人和物不再那么匹配，
虽然过去它们一直都成对。
The Door in the Dark
In going from room to room in the dark,
I reached out blindly to save my face,
But neglected, however lightly, to lace
My fingers and close my arms in an arc.
A slim door got in past my guard,
And hit me a blow in the head so hard.
I had my native simile jarred.
So people and things don"t pair any more
With what they used to pair with before.
□ 荒 野
雪花匆匆飘落，夜降临，
我望着一片路过的荒野：
地面几乎尽被白雪覆盖，
只有残枝断草裸露在外。
四周的树林环抱着荒野。
所有动物似已入巢安睡。
我无力思想也无心体会，
孤独寂寞不觉将我包围。
或许我内心也这般荒凉，
甚至比看到的还要寂寞；
入夜前的雪地一片死寂，
毫无表情，什么也不说。
星和星的距离吓不倒我，
遥远、无人居住更荒芜。
离家越近，我却越孤独，
内心的荒野那才叫恐怖。
Desert Places
Snow falling and night falling fast, oh, fast
In a field I looked into going past,
And the ground almost covered smooth in snow,
But a few weeds and stubble showing last.
The woods around it have it--it is theirs.
All animals are smothered in their lairs.
I am too absent-spirited to count;
The loneliness includes me unawares.
And lonely as it is that loneliness
Will be more lonely ere it will be less--
A blanker whiteness of benighted snow
With no expression, nothing to express.
They cannot scare me with their empty spaces
Between stars--on stars where no human race is.
I have it in me so much nearer home
To scare myself with my own desert places.
□ 丝绸帐篷
她，犹如田野中的一顶丝绸帐篷
当晴朗夏日的中午，一阵和煦的微风
吹干了露珠，根根丝带变得柔和，
她便抓住丝线，自由自在，轻轻飘动
支撑她的，是中央那杆雪松，
那伸向广袤天宇的，高高的篷顶
那显示灵魂存在的，确切见证
他，仿佛无牵无挂，
任何一根丝线都不能约束
被无数爱和思想的丝带，松松牵动
沿着指南针的旋转，与世间万物相连，
唯有当一根丝线，微微拉紧
在夏日变幻莫测的气流中，
它，才感觉到最轻微的，一丝束缚。
The Silken Tent
She is as in a field a silken tent
At midday when a sunny summer breeze
Has dried the dew and all its ropes relent,
So that in guys it gently sways at ease
SAnd its supporting central cedar pole,
That is its pinnacle to heavenward
And signifies the sureness of its soul
Seems to owe naught to any single cord,
But strictly held by none, is loosely bound
By countless silken ties of love and thought
To everything on earth the compass round,
And only by one"s going slightly taut
In the capriciousness of summer air,
Is the slightest bondage made aware.
□ 不锁之门
过了许多年时光，
忽听得敲门声响，
我想起门没有锁，
我怎能将它锁上。
我旋即吹灭了灯，
轻轻走在地板上，
又悄悄举起双手，
对着门祷告思量。
敲门声又响起来！
我看见窗户洞开，
于是偷偷爬上去，
一闪身跳到窗外。
我转身探进脑袋，
喊了一声：进来！
管它敲门的是谁，
有什么可以奇怪。
就这样一声门响，
我居然跳了出来，
投身不锁的世界，
随岁月漂流在外。
The lockless door
It went many years,
But at last came a knock,
And I though of the door
With no lock to lock.
I blew out the light,
I tip-toed the floor,
And raised both hands
In prayer to the door.
But the knock came again.
My window was wide;
I climbed on the sill
And descended outside.
Back over the sill
I bade a “Come in”
To whatever the knock
At the door may have been.
So at a knock
I emptied my cage
To hide in the world
And alter with age.
□ 布朗下山
布朗的农场在高高的山上，
冬天一过下午三点半，
每个人都能远远看见，他干活时
手中一闪一闪的提灯。
很多人一定看见了，那天晚上
他发疯似的从山上冲下来
越过耕地，越过墙壁，身不由己
提灯在空中划出道道光环。
那时他正在房屋和谷仓中间
取东西，突然狂风大作
把他撕扯进外面的冰天雪地，
于是他就从一长溜冰上冲了下来！
雪掩埋了墙壁，树木所剩无几：
他看出除非用鞋跟在冰溜上
戳出一个个窟窿，否则无法站住。
虽然他一再努力挺身
想站住而且嘴里嘟囔着什么，
可这时似乎只能顺其自然，
他跺脚却找不到立足处，眼睁睁
从冰溜到冰溜滑下山来。
有时他伸展的手臂如同鸟翼
而他瘦长的身躯像一根
转轴，他像溜冰运动员一样滑下山来，
似乎没丢失尊严和风度。
或快或慢根本由不得他，
或蹲或立他却基本能保持，
如果，他还想着他的衣服不能被蹭坏
那他就得牺牲脖子和脑袋。
他紧紧抓住提灯，不让它脱手。
后来有人说，他曾远远看见
布朗用提灯发出的信号，
“黑天半夜的，谁知道他那
一闪一闪的信号是啥意思！
他是在庆祝什么重大的事吧。
是不是他卖掉了农场，
或者当上了农业协会的主席。”
他跌跌撞撞，东倒西歪，踢溜爬扑；
摔倒时提灯磕碰得噼啪响
（但他硬是没让灯熄灭。）
一直滑到半山腰还想挺住、站住，
不相信自己会这么倒霉。
可后来，他还是听天由命，
彻底放弃了想站住的种种努力
像孩子们溜冰那样飞快地滑下山来。
“好吧——我——”这就是
他说的全部，当他终于停在山下的
河道里，回头望了望那足足
有两英里长的冰溜，一直到住处。
作为一名汽车行业的专家，
我有时会被大家问起
我们的股价是不是已彻底跌落，
这时我往往会认真地回答：
我们北美人还像过去那样。
不要因为布朗爬不上
那一长溜光滑的斜坡，就以为
他会放弃再次回家；
要么甚至想着，他会站在山下
一直等到来年春天冰雪消融
地上的冰溜杳无踪影。
他优雅、体面地顺从了自然规律，
然后按照股票攀升的方式
从山下到山顶一步步走上去，
千万不要为这样的事担心，
因为在这样一个特殊的时间里，
人们的感觉一定非常好
即使脚下走的是羊肠小道
他们也会以为是通天大道——
千万不要为这样的事过分担心；
不然就成不了堂堂男子汉——
一个忙里偷闲的政治家。
当我有理由将这命名为布朗运动
我却让布朗一直站在冰雪中；
但是他的眼睛突然闪闪发亮；
他摇了摇手中的提灯，说：
“回家吧！”然后走向
那条几英里外的回家的盘山公路。
Brown’s Descent
Brown lived at such a lofty farm
That everyone for miles could see
His lantern when he did his chores
In winter after half-past three.
And many must have seen him make
His wild descent from there one night,
Cross lots, cross walls, cross everything,
Describing rings of lantern light.
Between the house and barn the gale
Got him by something he had on
And blew him out on the icy crust
That cased the world, and he was gone!
Walls were all buried, trees were few:
He saw no stay unless he stove
A hole in somewhere with his heel.
But though repeatedly he strove
And stamped and said things to himself,
And sometimes something seemed to yield,
He gained no foothold, but pursued
His journey down from field to field.
Sometimes he came with arms outspread
Like wings, revolving in the scene
Upon his longer axis, and
With no small dignity of mien.
Faster or slower as he chanced,
Sitting or standing as he chose,
According as he feared to risk
His neck, or thought to spare his clothes,
He never let the lantern drop.
And some exclaimed who saw afar
The figures he described with it,
“I wonder what those signals are
Brown makes at such an hour of night!
He’s celebrating something strange.
I wonder if he’s sold his farm,
Or been made Master of the Grange.”
He reeled, he lurched, he bobbed, he checked;
He fell and made the lantern rattle
(But saved the light from going out.)
So half-way down he fought the battle
Incredulous of his own bad luck.
And then becoming reconciled
To everything, he gave it up
And came down like a coasting child.
“Well—I—be—” that was all he said,
As standing in the river road,
He looked back up the slippery slope
(Two miles it was) to his abode.
Sometimes as an authority
On motor-cars, I’m asked if I
Should say our stock was petered out,
And this is my sincere reply:
Yankees are what they always were.
Don’t think Brown ever gave up hope
Of getting home again because
He couldn’t climb that slippery slope;
Or even thought of standing there
Until the January thaw
Should take the polish off the crust.
He bowed with grace to natural law,
And then went round it on his feet,
After the manner of our stock;
Not much concerned for those to whom,
At that particular time o’clock,
It must have looked as if the course
He steered was really straight away
From that which he was headed for—
Not much concerned for them, I say:
No more so than became a man—
And politician at odd seasons.
I’ve kept Brown standing in the cold
While I invested him with reasons;
But now he snapped his eyes three times;
Then shook his lantern, saying, “Ile’s
’Bout out!” and took the long way home
By road, a matter of several miles.
□ 哦，上帝，请宽恕……
哦，上帝，请宽恕我跟你开的小玩笑，
我也会原谅你强加于我的大大的恶搞。
Forgive, O Lord …
Forgive, O Lord, my little jokes on Thee
And I’ll forgive Thy great big one on me.
□ 灶头鸟
有一位大名鼎鼎的歌手，
总在仲夏时的树林中歌唱，
让坚硬的树木变成纯粹的回声。
他说树叶苍老，对于花
仲夏只是春天的十分之一；
他说大晴天里会有片刻阴天
当梨花、樱桃花在阵雨中落下
最初向往的季节已过完；
下一个秋天还是命名过的秋天。
他说路上的尘土将铺天盖地。
莫非他和众鸟一样会停止歌唱
但他知道在歌唱时不能歌唱。
他那用无语言的语言提出的问题
就是该如何运用事物的衰替。
The Oven Bird
There is a singer everyone has heard,
Loud, a mid-summer and a mid-wood bird,
Who makes the solid tree trunks sound again.
He says that leaves are old and that for flowers
Mid-summer is to spring as one to ten.
he says the early petal-fall is past
When pear and cherry bloom went down in showers
On sunny days a moment overcast;
And comes that other fall we name the fall.
He says the highway dust is over all.
The bird would cease and be as other birds
But that he knows in singing not to sing.
The question that he frames in all but words
Is what to make of a diminished thing.
□ 潘神和我们
某日，森林之神潘自林中走出——
其颜面、毛发、瞳孔，
苍老如幽暗、神秘的青苔——
伫立于灿烂阳光下，欣赏他
树木繁茂的丘谷和山峦。
和风中，他手握金色芦笛，
行走在宽阔的草地高处；
凝神俯瞰所有的村村寨寨
不见炊烟也不见房顶。
嘻呼！妙哉！他用力踢了一下蹄子。
他深知平安长存，因无人惊扰
除年年有人来此贫瘠之地，
将半驯化的公牛腌制成肉
或淳朴的小儿肩挑水桶扑踏有声
一无所见亦无传闻。
忽然，他摔掉芦笛，明白
教一首走进新时代之歌难矣，
蓝鸦的尖叫和阳光之外
苍鹰的悲啼是森林之神的标记
于他，已算是神曲，于任何人。
人间旧貌换新颜，转瞬一变：
芦笛已无力摇撼沉甸甸、
密匝匝的树枝，以及
丛生又易碎的野花
笛声已不若懒洋洋、轻飘飘之喘息。
芦笛乃过往之欢娱，
世界已发现存在价值之新规则。
置之于阳光炙热的大地
盖上一朵花，注目，又别过头去——
游戏？游戏？嘻呼！何所戏?
Pan with Us
Pan came out of the woods one day,--
His skin and his hair and his eyes were gray,
The gray of the moss of walls were they,--
And stood in the sun and looked his fill
At wooded valley and wooded hill.
He stood in the zephyr, pipes in hand,
On a height of naked pasture land;
In all the country he did command
He saw no smoke and he saw no roof.
That was well! and he stamped a hoof.
His heart knew peace, for none came here
To this lean feeding save once a year
Someone to salt the half-wild steer,
Or homespun children with clicking pails
Who see no little they tell no tales.
He tossed his pipes, too hard to teach
A new-world song, far out of reach,
For a sylvan sign that the blue jay"s screech
And the whimper of hawks beside the sun
Were music enough for him, for one.
Times were changed from what they were:
Such pipes kept less of power to stir
The fruited bough of the juniper
And the fragile bluets clustered there
Than the merest aimless breath of air.
They were pipes of pagan mirth,
And the world had found new terms of worth.
He laid him down on the sun-burned earth
And ravelled a flower and looked away--
Play? Play?--What should he play?
□ 收获落叶
铁锨铲起落叶，
如同小匙调羹；
口袋装满落叶，
和气球一样轻。
我整天都在忙，
这热闹的声音，
像兔子在避闪，
似小鹿在飞奔。
我想揽起落叶，
它们哗哗逃窜，
漫过我的手臂，
又遮住我的脸。
可以多拉几车，
堆满我的柴房，
可就是溢出来，
那又能怎么样？
轻得不能再轻，
烧柴都不起焰；
哪里还有颜色，
和泥土再无关。
虽然毫无用处，
收获还是收获，
谁又能够证明，
我这不是收获？
Gathering Leaves
Spades take up leaves
No better than spoons,
And bags full of leaves
Are light as balloons.
I make a great noise
Of rustling all day
Like rabbit and deer
Running away.
But the mountains I raise
Elude my embrace,
Flowing over my arms
And into my face.
I may load and unload
Again and again
Till I fill the whole shed,
And what have I then?
Next to nothing for weight,
And since they grew duller
From contact with earth,
Next to nothing for color.
Next to nothing for use.
But a crop is a crop,
And who"s to say where
The harvest shall stop?
□ 指 令
离开现在难以对付的世界，
返回到一个质朴纯真的年代
破败、颓废、断裂
如同墓园中饱受日晒雨淋的石像，
这里有间不再是房子的房子
它在一座不再是农场的农场上
不再是城镇的城镇中。
通往那里的路回环曲折，
即便有人引领你也照样迷路，
或许老城本是一个采石场——
裸露着巨石的膝盖
早就放弃了掩埋村庄的愿望。
关于它一部古籍这样记载：
除大石上铁轮马车轧出的道道辙印，
突兀的悬崖上条条纹路向八方撑开延伸，
这是巨大的冰川留下的杰作
它曾把双脚紧紧地蹬在北极上。
你不必在意它的某种寒意
到现在还徘徊在豹山的这边；
也不必在意来自四十个窟窿的监视，
像四十只小木桶张开的眼睛，
这并不是什么严酷的考验。
至于树林中的一阵喧哗，响起
风的沙沙，急匆匆地传给叶子，
这喧哗仅仅出自莽撞与无知。
二十多年前，这片树林在哪里？
如今它们却过多地考虑
将几棵婆娑的老苹果树彻底遮掩。
就亲手写一首动听的歌，
歌唱这曾是某人下班回家的小路，
他或许正好空手走在你前头，
或者推辆吱吱呀呀着粮食的手推车。
冒险的终点就是思想的起点，
两种乡村文明早先在这里
交汇，而今全无踪迹。
如果你现在迷失方向找不到自我，
就请紧紧跟随脚下的梯级小路，
竖一块禁止的标牌拒绝世人但除了我。
于是你会感到舒适又自由。
如今剩下的地盘只有这么一小块。
从前这里是孩子们搭起的小屋，
里面堆放的玩具
不过是些松树下摔碎的盘子。
叹息吧，这些小玩意儿居然使他们幸福！
后来这房子不见了踪影，
只剩下一个长满紫丁香的窟窿，
合拢之后像面团上戳出的一个小洞。
这不是玩具房子，而是真正的房子。
你的目的地连同命运的小溪
就在这房子里，
它像凛冽的清泉刚刚离开泉源，
山高路长难以流远。
（我知道山谷下奔流的溪水
会在荆枝上绽开朵朵水花）
我还保存着一只打破了的高脚酒杯，
埋在水边的一棵老树下，
像受了符咒的圣杯使坏人找不到，
如圣马可所说，他们因此不能得救。
（这酒杯是我从玩具房子里偷的）
这就是你的溪水你的沐浴地，
喝一口你将超越混乱，重新醒来。
Directive
Back out of all this now too much for us,
Back in a time made simple by the loss
Of detail, burned, dissolved, and broken off
Like graveyard marble sculpture in the weather,
There is a house that is no more a house
Upon a farm that is no more a farm
And in a town that is no more a town.
The road there, if you"ll let a guide direct you
Who only has at heart your getting lost,
May seem as if it should have been a quarry –
Great monolithic knees the former town
Long since gave up pretense of keeping covered.
And there"s a story in a book about it:
Besides the wear of iron wagon wheels
The ledges show lines ruled southeast-northwest,
The chisel work of an enormous Glacier
That braced his feet against the Arctic Pole.
You must not mind a certain coolness from him
Still said to haunt this side of Panther Mountain.
Nor need you mind the serial ordeal
Of being watched from forty cellar holes
As if by eye pairs out of forty firkins.
As for the woods" excitement over you
That sends light rustle rushes to their leaves,
Charge that to upstart inexperience.
Where were they all not twenty years ago?
They think too much of having shaded out
A few old pecker-fretted apple trees.
Make yourself up a cheering song of how
Someone"s road home from work this once was,
Who may be just ahead of you on foot
Or creaking with a buggy load of grain.
The height of the adventure is the height
Of country where two village cultures faded
Into each other. Both of them are lost.
And if you"re lost enough to find yourself
By now, pull in your ladder road behind you
And put a sign up CLOSED to all but me.
Then make yourself at home. The only field
Now left"s no bigger than a harness gall.
First there"s the children"s house of make-believe,
Some shattered dishes underneath a pine,
The playthings in the playhouse of the children.
Weep for what little things could make them glad.
Then for the house that is no more a house,
But only a belilaced cellar hole,
Now slowly closing like a dent in dough.
This was no playhouse but a house in earnest.
Your destination and your destiny"s
A brook that was the water of the house,
Cold as a spring as yet so near its source,
Too lofty and original to rage.
(We know the valley streams that when aroused
Will leave their tatters hung on barb and thorn.)
I have kept hidden in the instep arch
Of an old cedar at the waterside
A broken drinking goblet like the Grail
Under a spell so the wrong ones can"t find it,
So can"t get saved, as Saint Mark says they mustn"t.
(I stole the goblet from the children"s playhouse.)
Here are your waters and your watering place.
Drink and be whole again beyond confusion.
□ 见证树
在我遥想的长线呈直角
弯曲的树林里，一根铁的脊骨
和一堆真正的岩石被挺起。
远离荒野，在岩石被卷来
并挺起的这个角落
一棵树，一棵伤痕累累的树
给我留下见证树的印象
使我刻骨铭心地谨记
我的证明——并非不受限制。
如此真理得到证明并被确立
尽管充满黑暗和怀疑
纵使被一个困惑的世界所包围。
译注：原诗题目为《山毛榉》。
Beech
Where my imaginary line
Bends square in woods an iron spine
And pile of real rocks have been founded
And off this corner in the wild
Where these are driven in and piled
One tree, by being deeply wounded
Has been impressed as Witness Tree
And made commit to memory
My proof of being not unbounded
Thus truth"s established and bourne out
Though circumstanced with dark and doubt
Though by a world of doubt surrounded.
□ 田 夫
我听见他们说：用犁犁田雪。
虽然，他们的意思不是要种植。
除非，在悲痛中嘲弄
在岩石上种植。
译注：Plow的意思，既是用扫雪机扫雪，也是用犁犁地。
Plowmen
I hear men say to plow the snow.
They cannot mean to plant it, though—
Unless in bitterness to mock
At having cultivated rock.
