一只我不认识的鸟，像稻草人一样驼背在他的灯杆上，侧身望着外面的麦田。田野黄得像鸡蛋面包的面团，除了在那里(仿佛他们让它活下去是为了看)，有一只蝗虫在叶绿和荫紫中翻腾，一种站立的怜悯。鸟儿叫了两声:“红土，红土!”否则他会说"直接，直接"如果有人路过，我会问:“周围的人一定都知道——他们为什么这样生，为什么这样死——或者，为什么，这一次，迟步的苍鹭从小溪的干枯的衣裳上飞出，飞过长满粗草的沟壑的草地，飞向下面黑黝黝的、布满皱纹的常青树。”他们知道，他们不知道。发问的人必须是个陌生人——发问，更不用说回答，是危险的;问他这件事，谁会不后悔他所做过的一切和他从来没有想过的，想想生活和它的痛苦，它的随机的，紧紧抓住的，家里的幸福，事故的情况?田野里最远的农夫，一株被农夫种成种子的枯槁的植物，感到一种渴望，一种孤独的文雅囚禁在他的胸中;而且，就像我一样，在他一贯的困惑中，哼哼着，发出了一种持久的恳求。 From the tar of the blazing square The eyes shift, in their taciturn And unavowing, unavailable sorrow. Yet the intonation of a name confesses Some secrets that they never meant To let out to a soul; and what words would not dim The bowed and weathered heads above the denim Or the once-too-often washed wash dresses? They are subdued to their own element. One day The red, clay face Is lowered to the naked clay; After some words, the body is forsaken The shadows lengthen, and a dreaming hope Breathes, from the vague mound, Life; From the grove under the spire Stars shine, and a wandering light Is kindled for the mourner, man. The angel kneeling with the wreath Sees, in the moonlight, graves.