标题：圣诞 诗辑（英文）

内容：
In WinterBY MICHAEL RYANAt four o’clock it’s dark.

Today, looking out through duskat three gray women in stretch slackschatting in front of the post office,their steps left and right and backlike some quick folk dance of kindness,I remembered the winter we spentcrying in each other’s laps.

What could you be thinking at this moment?

How lovely and strange the gangly spinesof trees against a thickening skyas you drive from the libraryhumming off-key?

Or are you smilingat an idea met in a bookthe way you smiled with your whole bodythe first night we talked?

I was so sure my love of you was perfect,and the light todayreminded me of the winter you drove homeeach day in the dark at four o’clockand would come into my study to kiss medespite mistake after mistake after mistake.

Year’s EndBY RICHARD WILBURNow winter downs the dying of the year,   And night is all a settlement of snow;From the soft street the rooms of houses show   A gathered light, a shapen atmosphere,   Like frozen-over lakes whose ice is thin   And still allows some stirring down within.

I’ve known the wind by water banks to shakeThe late leaves down, which frozen where they fell   And held in ice as dancers in a spell   Fluttered all winter long into a lake;   Graved on the dark in gestures of descent,   They seemed their own most perfect monument.

There was perfection in the death of ferns   Which laid their fragile cheeks against the stone   A million years.

Great mammoths overthrown   Composedly have made their long sojourns,   Like palaces of patience, in the grayAnd changeless lands of ice.

And at PompeiiThe little dog lay curled and did not rise   But slept the deeper as the ashes roseAnd found the people incomplete, and froze   The random hands, the loose unready eyes   Of men expecting yet another sunTo do the shapely thing they had not done.

These sudden ends of time must give us pause.

We fray into the future, rarely wroughtSave in the tapestries of afterthought.

More time, more time.

Barrages of applause   Come muffled from a buried radio.

The New-year bells are wrangling with the snow.

Taking Down the TreeBY JANE KENYON"Give me some light!

" cries Hamlet'suncle midway through the murderof Gonzago.

"Light!

Light!

" cry scatteringcourtesans.

Here, as in Denmark,it's dark at four, and even the moonshines with only half a heart.

The ornaments go down into the box:the silver spaniel, My Darlingon its collar, from Mother's childhoodin Illinois; the balsa jumping jackmy brother and I fought over,pulling limb from limb.

Motherdrew it together again with threadwhile I watched, feeling depravedat the age of ten.

With something more than cautionI handle them, and the lights, with theirtin star-shaped reflectors, brought alongfrom house to house, their pasteboardtoy suitcases increasingly flimsy.

Tick, tick, the desiccated needles drop.

By suppertime all that remains is the scentof balsam fir.

If it's darknesswe're having, let it be extravagant.

Lines for WinterBY MARK STRAND  for Ros KraussTell yourselfas it gets cold and gray falls from the airthat you will go onwalking, hearingthe same tune no matter whereyou find yourself—inside the dome of darkor under the cracking whiteof the moon's gaze in a valley of snow.

Tonight as it gets coldtell yourselfwhat you know which is nothingbut the tune your bones playas you keep going.

And you will be ablefor once to lie down under the small fireof winter stars.

And if it happens that you cannotgo on or turn backand you find yourselfwhere you will be at the end,tell yourselfin that final flowing of cold through your limbsthat you love what you are.

1 January 1965BY JOSEPH BRODSKYTRANSLATED BY GEORGE L.

KLINEThe Wise Men will unlearn your name.

Above your head no star will flame.

One weary sound will be the same—the hoarse roar of the gale.

The shadows fall from your tired eyesas your lone bedside candle dies,for here the calendar breeds nightstill stores of candles fail.

What prompts this melancholy key?

A long familiar melody.

It sounds again.

So let it be.

Let it sound from this night.

Let it sound in my hour of  death—as gratefulness of eyes and lipsfor that which sometimes makes us liftour gaze to the far sky.

You glare in silence at the wall.

Your stocking gapes: no gifts at all.

It's clear that you are now too oldto trust in good Saint Nick;that it's too late for miracles.

— But suddenly, lifting your eyesto heaven's light, you realize:your life is a sheer gift.

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发布时间：2024-12-25 05:39:36
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