湿热飘过整个下午，就像一只校园里的狗，一个等待着在橄榄球比赛结束后呆在家里的兄弟会鬼魂。拱门空无一物，直插天空。除了树叶:那些我们思考、梦想和饮酒的眼眸。那球形的光辉，古英国人的样子，是我们生命的总和，“彻彻底底地”穿透了我们所有的起落，现在在我们虚弱的身体上翻滚，每天都是一条龙。我们在对色彩的热爱中失去了健康，在无数的喷泉中淹死，像孩子一样单纯。天太热了，我们的出生被尖叫着放弃了。我们在街道草坪上的生活似乎很安静。树叶叽叽喳喳地与风攀比，我们还没起床，天空就满了云。啊，我们无尽的午睡!土坯雕像在这片厌恶我们和我们晒黑的肉体的土地上。 The wind blows towards us particularly the sobbing of our dear friends on both coasts. We are sick of living and afraid that death will not be by water, o sea. 2 Along the walks and shaded ways pregnant women look snidely at children. Two weeks ago they were told, in these selfsame pools of trefoil, "the market for emeralds is collapsing," "chlorophyll shines in your eyes," "the sea's misery is progenitor of the dark moss which hides on the north side of trees and cries." What do they think of slim kids now? and how, when the summer's gong of day and night slithers towards their sweat and towards the nest of their arms and thighs, do they feel about children whose hides are pearly with days of swimming? Do they mistake these fresh drops for tears? The wind works over these women constantly! trying, perhaps, to curdle their milk or make their spring unseasonably fearful, season they face with dread and bright eyes, The leaves, wrinkled or shiny like apples, wave women courage and sigh, a void temperature. 3 The alternatives of summer do not remove us from this place. The fainting into skies from a diving board, the express train to Detroit's damp bars, the excess of affection on the couch near an open window or a Bauhaus fire escape, the lazy regions of stars, all are strangers. Like Mayakovsky read on steps of cool marble, or Yeats danced in a theatre of polite music. The classroon day of dozing and grammar, the partial eclipse of the head in the row in front of the head of poplars, sweet Syrinx! last out the summer in a stay of iron. Workmen loiter before urinals, stare out windows at girders tightly strapped to clouds. And in the morning we whimper as we cook an egg, so far from fluttering sands and azure! 4 The violent No! of the sun burns the forehead of hills. Sand fleas arrive from Salt Lake and most of the theatres close. The leaves roll into cigars, or it seems our eyes stick together in sleep. O forest, o brook of spice, o cool gaze of strangers! the city tumbles towards autumn in a convulsion of tourists and teachers. We dance in the dark, forget the anger of what we blame on the day. Children toss and murmur as a rumba blankets their trees and beckons their stars closer, older, now. We move o'er the world, being so much here. It's as if Poseidon left off counting his waters for a moment! In the fields the silence is music like the moon. The bullfrogs sleep in their hairy caves. across the avenue a trefoil lamp of the streets tosses luckily. The leaves, finally, love us! and moonrise! we die upon the sun.