在房子的后面有木头。只要夏天还有一片树叶，树林就会发出声音，我可以把它放进我的歌里，当我醒来时，我可以走到好或坏的地方:到笼子里，到炉子里，到树林里的房子里。它是生活的一部分，或者是我们创造的生活故事的一部分。可是，在最后一片叶子落下之后，在最后一缕阳光落下之后——因为每一年都是没有叶子的，每一天都是没有阳光的——树林开始了它严肃的存在:它没有道路，没有房屋，没有故事;它拒绝比较……一声清澈的，重复的，潺潺的潺潺声，像勺子或玻璃的呼吸声，是小溪，树林里午夜污秽的水。如果我走进树林，尽我所能，我来到了自己的门前，树林里那座房子的门。它无声地打开:床上有什么东西盖着，有什么东西驼背在那儿睡着，在那儿醒着——但是什么?我不知道。我看着，躺在那里，却不知道。 How far out my great echoing clumsy limbs Stretch, surrounded only by space! For time has struck, All the clocks are stuck now, for how many lives, On the same second. Numbed, wooden, motionless, We are far under the surface of the night. Nothing comes down so deep but sound: a car, freight cars, A high soft droning, drawn out like a wire Forever and ever--is this the sound that Bunyan heard So that he thought his bowels would burst within him?-- Drift on, on, into nothing. Then someone screams A scream like an old knife sharpened into nothing. It is only a nightmare. No one wakes up, nothing happens, Except there is gooseflesh over my whole body-- And that too, after a little while, is gone. I lie here like a cut-off limb, the stump the limb has left... Here at the bottom of the world, what was before the world And will be after, holds me to its back Breasts and rocks me: the oven is cold, the cage is empty, In the House in the Wood, the witch and her child sleep.