我下面房间里的女孩在睡觉前用曼陀林弹奏她知道的三首简单的曲子。他们说不出她内心的感受!当她弹完几次后，她用指甲漫无目的地拨弄着琴弦，微笑着，愉快地想着许多事情。我在商店橱窗前站了很长时间，看着茶色丝绸上绣着的蓝色蝴蝶。在我面前，那座建筑是一座高塔，时间在我身后轰鸣，太阳从屋顶和满是灰尘的树上掠过;它们就在那里，闪闪发光，光彩夺目，一动不动，在金色的天空中由耐心的黄色手指缝成，早已化为尘土。第一声钟声是银色的，呼吸着黑暗，我只想到时间的长镰刀。第二个钟是深红色的，我想起了一个节日的夜晚，火箭在天空划出红色的皱纹，星星轻轻地破碎。第三次钟声是藏红花色的，缓慢的，我看到海面上长长的日落，云雾密布，栏杆闪闪发光。第四个钟是青铜色的，我在昏暗的暮色中走在结冰的湖边:冰中传来低沉的噼啪声，树吱吱作响，鸟在飞翔。 The fifth bell is cold clear azure, Delicately tinged with green: One golden star hangs melting in it, And towards this, sleepily, I go. The sixth bell is as if a pebble Had been dropped into a deep sea far above me . . . Rings of sound ebb slowly into the silence. IV On the day when my uncle and I drove to the cemetery, Rain rattled on the roof of the carriage; And talkng constrainedly of this and that We refrained from looking at the child's coffin on the seat before us. When we reached the cemetery We found that the thin snow on the grass Was already transparent with rain; And boards had been laid upon it That we might walk without wetting our feet. V When I was a boy, and saw bright rows of icicles In many lengths along a wall I was dissappointed to find That I could not play music upon them: I ran my hand lightly across them And they fell, tinkling. I tell you this, young man, so that your expectations of life Will not be too great. VI It is now two hours since I left you, And the perfume of your hands is still on my hands. And though since then I have looked at the stars, walked in the cold blue streets, And heard the dead leaves blowing over the ground Under the trees, I still remember the sound of your laughter. How will it be, lady, when there is none left to remember you Even as long as this? Will the dust braid your hair? VII The day opens with the brown light of snowfall And past the window snowflakes fall and fall. I sit in my chair all day and work and work Measuring words against each other. I open the piano and play a tune But find it does not say what I feel, I grow tired of measuring words against each other, I grow tired of these four walls, And I think of you, who write me that you have just had a daughter And named her after your first sweetheart, And you, who break your heart, far away, In the confusion and savagery of a long war, And you who, worn by the bitterness of winter, Will soon go south. The snowflakes fall almost straight in the brown light Past my window, And a sparrow finds refuge on my window-ledge. This alone comes to me out of the world outside As I measure word with word. VIII Many things perplex me and leave me troubled, Many things are locked away in the white book of stars Never to be opened by me. The starr'd leaves are silently turned, And the mooned leaves; And as they are turned, fall the shadows of life and death. Perplexed and troubled, I light a small light in a small room, The lighted walls come closer to me, The familiar pictures are clear. I sit in my favourite chair and turn in my mind The tiny pages of my own life, whereon so little is written, And hear at the eastern window the pressure of a long wind, coming From I know not where. How many times have I sat here, How many times will I sit here again, Thinking these same things over and over in solitude As a child says over and over The first word he has learned to say. IX This girl gave her heart to me, And this, and this. This one looked at me as if she loved me, And silently walked away. This one I saw once and loved, and never saw her again. Shall I count them for you upon my fingers? Or like a priest solemnly sliding beads? Or pretend they are roses, pale pink, yellow, and white, And arrange them for you in a wide bowl To be set in sunlight?