我我梦想的旅行多次:飞行像蝙蝠缩小隧道深处独自开车,没有行李,出一个半岛,道路两旁睡椅第二个增长,罚款干雪滴答作响的挡风玻璃,备用雪和冻雨,迎风而立没有流量,背后没有灯光,在模糊的侧镜,路上的碎石从釉面tarface石头,结束最后绝望sand-rut,汽车的摊位,在雪里,直到头灯变暗。在田野的尽头，在割草机错过的角落里，在草皮掉入掩蔽着草的沟渠的地方，猫鸟出没的地方，田鼠筑巢的地方，离千变万化的花堆不远，在锡罐、轮胎、生锈的管子和破损的机器中间，——一个人学会了永恒;还有一只枯槁的死老鼠的脸，被雨水和地甲虫吃掉了(我是在一个旧煤仓的废墟中发现的);还有一只猫，在野鸡群附近被抓，它的内脏撒在半熟的花上，被守夜人打死了。我为小鸟受苦，为被割草机夹住的小兔子受苦，我的悲伤并不过分。因为在五月初遇见莺，就是忘记了时间和死亡;它们如何充满了黄鹂的榆树，一片叽叽喳喳的不安的云，整个早晨，我看啊看啊，直到我的眼睛从鸟的形状中模糊，——梅角，布莱克本，天蓝色，——移动，像鱼一样难以捉摸，无所畏惧，悬挂，像小果子一样捆在一起，弯曲末端的树枝，静止片刻，然后俯身半飞，比雀鸟还轻，鹪鹩在半绿的树篱里斗嘴歌唱，鸡场里他的死树闪烁着鼓声。——或者赤裸地躺在沙滩上，在缓慢的河流淤积的浅滩上，抚摸着贝壳，想着:我曾经也是这样，没有头脑，或者有另一种头脑，不那么奇特;或者在长满青苔的泥潭中沉沦;或者，瘦骨嶙峋的膝盖，跨坐在潮湿的圆木上，相信:我会回来，像蛇或嘶叫的鸟，或者，幸运的话，像狮子。我学会了不再害怕无限，那遥远的原野，那永远的多风的悬崖，那在明天的白光中消逝的时间，那失去控制的车轮，那蔓延的波浪，那涌来的水。 III The river turns on itself, The tree retreats into its own shadow. I feel a weightless change, a moving forward As of water quickening before a narrowing channel When banks converge, and the wide river whitens; Or when two rivers combine, the blue glacial torrent And the yellowish-green from the mountainy upland, -- At first a swift rippling between rocks, Then a long running over flat stones Before descending to the alluvial plane, To the clay banks, and the wild grapes hanging from the elmtrees. The slightly trembling water Dropping a fine yellow silt where the sun stays; And the crabs bask near the edge, The weedy edge, alive with small snakes and bloodsuckers, -- I have come to a still, but not a deep center, A point outside the glittering current; My eyes stare at the bottom of a river, At the irregular stones, iridescent sandgrains, My mind moves in more than one place, In a country half-land, half-water. I am renewed by death, thought of my death, The dry scent of a dying garden in September, The wind fanning the ash of a low fire. What I love is near at hand, Always, in earth and air. IV The lost self changes, Turning toward the sea, A sea-shape turning around, -- An old man with his feet before the fire, In robes of green, in garments of adieu. A man faced with his own immensity Wakes all the waves, all their loose wandering fire. The murmur of the absolute, the why Of being born falls on his naked ears. His spirit moves like monumental wind That gentles on a sunny blue plateau. He is the end of things, the final man. All finite things reveal infinitude: The mountain with its singular bright shade Like the blue shine on freshly frozen snow, The after-light upon ice-burdened pines; Odor of basswood on a mountain-slope, A scent beloved of bees; Silence of water above a sunken tree : The pure serene of memory in one man, -- A ripple widening from a single stone Winding around the waters of the world.