《割草》
文/罗伯特.弗罗斯特
译/原野

树林边安静得只有一个声音，
那就是我的长镰和地面的低语。
它在低语什么？我也不清楚；
也许是说太阳太热，
也许是说这里有些寂寞—
这就是它低语没有出声的原因。
它绝不是梦想不劳而获，
也不是神仙手中的轻而易举的金子：
任何非真实的东西都似乎太弱，
只有真挚的爱堆草成排
还有淡白兰花嫩尖的花穗
以及受惊闪亮的青蛇。
事实是，劳动知晓甜蜜的梦。
我的长镰低语，绿草晒成干草。


http://s1/mw690/002lwqRggy6FCTtnvPi20&690

 Mowing

There was never a sound beside the wood but one,
And that was my long scythe whispering to the ground.
What was it it whispered? I knew not well myself;
Perhaps it was something about the heat of the sun,
Something, perhaps, about the lack of sound--
And that was why it whispered and did not speak.
It was no dream of the gifrt of idle hours,
Or easy gold at the hand of fay or elf:
Anything more than the truth would have seemed too weak
To the earnest love that laid the swale in rows,
Not without feeble-pointed spikes of flowers
(Pale orchises), and scared a bright green snake.
The fact is the sweetest dream that labour knows.
My long scythe whispered and left the hay to make.
Robert Frost