小马驹?然而，黑乌鸦从你身旁飞过，大声疾呼，哀怨地唱着:“小心!”草丛里的蝴蝶在浪漫地飞舞，青草的香气使你的灵魂恍惚，那么，你为什么要害怕马刺和痕迹呢，你这只不愿跳舞的野马呀?你生来就有高贵高贵的贵族的骄傲，他们世世代代在金色的走廊里跳舞。在所有广阔的农场里，人最有人情味。你明明白白地叫着，跳着，呜咽着，哼着，扭着身子，跳着，躲开追赶你的人，斜眼望着，你那希腊式的脚，帕特农神庙式的步伐，啊，那不会跳舞的野马。蚱蜢欢呼起来。“继续旋转，”他们说。傲慢的麻雀从棚子里叫道:“如果人们不笑，就让他们生不如死吧。”但你的思想是多么的恶毒，尽管杀马的人带着蛇鞭来了。 You bantered and cantered away your last chance. And they scourged you, with Hell in their speech and their faces, O broncho that would not be broken of dancing. "Nobody cares for you," rattled the crows, As you dragged the whole reaper, next day, down the rows. The three mules held back, yet you danced on your toes. You pulled like a racer, and kept the mules chasing. You tangled the harness with bright eyes side-glancing, While the drunk driver bled you ? a pole for a lance ? And the giant mules bit at you ? keeping their places. O broncho that would not be broken of dancing. In that last afternoon your boyish heart broke. The hot wind came down like a sledge-hammer stroke. The blood-sucking flies to a rare feast awoke. And they searched out your wounds, your death-warrant tracing. And the merciful men, their religion enhancing, Stopped the red reaper, to give you a chance. Then you died on the prairie, and scorned all disgraces, O broncho that would not be broken of dancing.