“不是无言，而是克制”

今日偶读美国女诗人Marianne Moore(1887-1972)的诗歌“无言”(Silenle)，捧在心头，爱不释手。任何人的任何解释，都会破坏这首诗的宁静画面。我原样抄来，继续欣赏这首诗：

Silence

My father used to say,
"Superior people never make long visits,
have to be shown Longfellow's grave
or the glass flowers at Harvard.
Self-reliant like the cat – 
that takes its prey to privacy,
the mouse's limp tail hanging like a shoelace from its mouth – 
they sometimes enjoy solitude,
and can be robbed of speech
by speech which has delighted them.
The deepest feeling always shows itself in silence;
not in silence, but restraint."
Nor was he insincere in saying, "Make my house your inn."
Inns are not residences.