黑色的树映衬着橘黄色的天空，被风吹得瑟瑟发抖的树，像路上的浪花，颤抖着像干枯的手臂，扭动着像溪流，像被扔进雪里的热铅的扭曲的魅力。下面的铁冰像一根刺，把我脚上的破鞋割开，空气里全是苦涩的雨夹雪。所有的土地都被雪挤得密密的，像钢铁般坚硬，凶狠，闪烁着苍白的光芒，像黑曜石平原。但我仍在努力——我是冰与火——冰与火合而为一在一个巨大的欲望饥渴中。一种朦胧的渴望，向往美好的地方，夏日阳光下葱郁的田野，燃烧着的木头，墙壁，脸庞，——还有美酒，古老的谈吐，喷泉里跳舞的金球，还有忘不了的手。(啊，上帝，我把它们踩在我踩过的地方，它们留在那里，留在那里，刻在难以言表的痛苦中，我爱的嘴唇和脸现在分开了，它们曾经比我的心更近——痛苦，痛苦，可怕地成为我的一部分. . . .因为没有人会离开，地狱里也没有人会忘记。)还有鲜花，还有闪闪发亮的水壶，还有古老的意大利剑——还有目光，火光的一瞥，火光的一瞥，直冲云霄，跃起，越燃越高，直冲万里无云的蔚蓝，直到两个灵魂合而为一，是火焰，是血肉，又是一个!仿佛所有的泉水都被重新压缩成一滴露珠!但我想到的最多的是热，渴望极大. . . . Hot white sand The lazy body lies at rest in, Or sun-dried, scented grass to nest in, And fires, innumerable fires, Great fagots hurling golden gyres Of sparks far up, and the red heart In sea-coals, crashing as they part To tiny flares, and kindling snapping, Bunched sticks that burst their string and wrapping And fall like jackstraws; green and blue The evil flames of driftwood too, And heavy, sullen lumps of coke With still, fierce heat and ugly smoke. . . . . . . And then the vision of his face, And theirs, all theirs, came like a sword, Thrice, to the heart -- and as I fell I thought I saw a light before. I woke. My hands were blue and sore, Torn on the ice. I scarcely felt The frozen sleet begin to melt Upon my face as I breathed deeper, But lay there warmly, like a sleeper Who shifts his arm once, and moans low, And then sinks back to night. Slow, slow, And still as Death, came Sleep and Death And looked at me with quiet breath. Unbending figures, black and stark Against the intense deeps of the dark. Tall and like trees. Like sweet and fire Rest crept and crept along my veins, Gently. And there were no more pains. . . . Was it not better so to lie? The fight was done. Even gods tire Of fighting. . . . My way was the wrong. Now I should drift and drift along To endless quiet, golden peace . . . And let the tortured body cease. And then a light winked like an eye. . . . And very many miles away A girl stood at a warm, lit door, Holding a lamp. Ray upon ray It cloaked the snow with perfect light. And where she was there was no night Nor could be, ever. God is sure, And in his hands are things secure. It is not given me to trace The lovely laughter of that face, Like a clear brook most full of light, Or olives swaying on a height, So silver they have wings, almost; Like a great word once known and lost And meaning all things. Nor her voice A happy sound where larks rejoice, Her body, that great loveliness, The tender fashion of her dress, I may not paint them. These I see, Blazing through all eternity, A fire-winged sign, a glorious tree! She stood there, and at once I knew The bitter thing that I must do. There could be no surrender now; Though Sleep and Death were whispering low. My way was wrong. So. Would it mend If I shrank back before the end? And sank to death and cowardice? No, the last lees must be drained up, Base wine from an ignoble cup; (Yet not so base as sleek content When I had shrunk from punishment) The wretched body strain anew! Life was a storm to wander through. I took the wrong way. Good and well, At least my feet sought out not Hell! Though night were one consuming flame I must go on for my base aim, And so, perhaps, make evil grow To something clean by agony . . . And reach that light upon the snow . . . And touch her dress at last . . . So, so, I crawled. I could not speak or see Save dimly. The ice glared like fire, A long bright Hell of choking cold, And each vein was a tautened wire, Throbbing with torture -- and I crawled. My hands were wounds. So I att