An Old Man's Winter Night

by Robert Frost

All out-of-doors looked darkly in at him

Through the thin frost, almost in separate stars,

That gathers on the pane in empty rooms.

What kept his eyes from giving back the gaze

Was the lamp tilted near them in his hand.

What kept him from remembering what it was

That brought him to that creaking room was age.

He stood with barrels round him—at a loss.

And having scared the cellar under him

In clomping there, he scared it once again

In clomping off;—and scared the outer night,

Which has its sounds, familiar, like the roar

Of trees and crack of branches, common things,

But nothing so like beating on a box.

A light he was to no one but himself

Where now he sat, concerned with he knew what,

A quiet light, and then not even that.

He consigned to the moon—such as she was,

So late-arising—to the broken moon

As better than the sun in any case

For such a charge, his snow upon the roof,

His icicles along the wall to keep;

And slept. The log that shifted with a jolt

Once in the stove, disturbed him and he shifted,

And eased his heavy breathing, but still slept.

One aged man—one man—can't keep a house,

A farm, a countryside, or if he can,

It's thus he does it of a winter night.

冬夜老人

作者：罗伯特·弗罗斯特

翻译：晚枫

屋外的一切，透过窗楞里薄薄的霜

那几乎像散落的星星聚集的薄霜

阴险地窥进空屋，看着他。

手中那盏斜在眼前的灯

让他的目光无法看回去。

这把年纪也让他无法记起

他是如何来到这嘎吱作响的屋子的

他站在那，前后都是木桶——茫然。

重重的脚步让地窖吓一跳

走开的脚步再吓它一次——

这次还吓坏了外面的黑夜，

黑夜有自己的声响，那熟悉的，比如

树木的嚎叫，枝丫的断裂，这等常事，

但这声音最像敲打木箱。

他是一盏只能照见自己的灯

他坐在那里，只想着自己是怎样的

一盏静静的灯，然后索性连这也不想。

他把房顶的积雪和墙沿的冰凌

托付给月亮照管，即使这轮月亮

升起得很晚，而且残缺不全

无论怎样，这事她比太阳更胜任；

他便转头睡去。火炉中的柴

翻动了一下，吵醒他，他也翻动了一下，

粗重的呼吸平缓了些，但他还在沉睡。

一个上年纪的男人——一个人——维持不了一所房子，

一个农场，一片乡村，即使他能，

也会做得像在冬夜里的这个样子。

后记：
曾经翻译过几首弗罗斯特的诗歌，这首诗恰好出现在昨日美国诗人协会的“每日一诗”栏目中。冬季也许总让人有一种静谧，从而去思考和反省。弗罗斯特的诗歌多以客观的笔触，去揭示人生，去展现主观。这首诗以一种叙事的口吻，不带任何主观情绪，让读者去思考，去领悟。