小镇上的弗罗斯特

上

这到底是什么意思。意思他也明白，可诗并不是一种“意思”，如同小说也不仅是一个“故事”。他进不去的，却在门外徘徊了快三十年。灯下书，枕边书。

The Most of It

He thought he kept the universe alone;

For all the voice in answer he could wake

Was but he mocking echo of his own

From some tree-hidden cliff across the lake.

Some morning from the boulder-broken beach

He would cry out on life， that what it wants

Is not its own love back in copy speech，

But counter-love， original response.

And nothing ever came of what he cried

Unless it was the embodiment that crashed

In the cliff’s talus on the other side，

And then in the far-distant water splashed，

But after a time allowed for it to swim，

Instead of proving human when it neared

And someone else additional to him，

As a great buck it powerfully appeared，

Pushing the crumpled water up ahead，

And landed pouring like a waterfall，

And stumbled through the rocks with horny tread，

And forced the underbrush——and that was all.

这诗人说“诗”是在翻译中失去的东西，因此不许别人译他的作品；有人说读翻译诗等于穿了雨衣洗澡；还有人说自称能读懂非母语诗的都是骗子。（剩余17124字）