I
The winter's evening settles down
With smells of steaks in passageways.
Six o'clock.
The burnt-out ends of smoky days.
And now a gusty shower wraps
The grimy scraps
Of withered leaves across your feet
And newpapers from vacant lots;
The showers beat
On empty blinds and chimney-pots,
And at the corner of the street
A lonely cab-horse steams and stamps.
And then the lighting of the lamps.
一
冬夜带着牛排味
凝固在过道里。
六点钟。
烟腾腾的白天烧剩的烟蒂。
而现在阵雨骤然
把萎黄的落叶那污秽的碎片
还有从空地吹来的报纸
裹卷在自己脚边。
阵雨敲击着
破碎的百叶窗和烟囱管，
在街道的转弯
一匹孤独的马冒着热气刨着蹄，
然后路灯一下子亮起。
II
The morning comes to consciousness
Of faint stale smells of beer
From the sawdust-trampled street
With all its muddy feet that press
To early coffee-stands.
With the other masquerades
That time resumes,
One thinks of all the hands
That are raising dingy shades
In a thousand furnished rooms.
III
You tossed a blanket from the bed,
You lay upon your back, and waited;
You dozed, and watched the night revealing
The thousand sordid images
Of which your soul was constituted;
They flickered against the ceiling.
And when all the world came back
And the light crept up between the shutters,
And you heard the sparrows in the gutters,
You had such a vision of the street
As the street hardly understands;
Sitting along the bed's edge, where
You curled the papers from your hair,
Or clasped the yellow soles of feet
In the palms of both soiled hands.
三
你从床上掀掉一条毯子，
你仰卧着，等待着；
你瞌睡着，观望着黑夜显示出
成千上万个污秽的意象——
这些意象构成了你的灵魂。
这些意象在天花板上隐现。
当人世生活全都重新回来，
阳光在百叶窗中间爬上，
你听到一只麻雀在街沟中歌唱，
对你，街道呈现这样一个景象，
对此，街道自己几乎不能理解；
坐在床边上，那里
你卷着头发中的纸带子，
或用两只腌膳的手掌
捏着黄黄的脚底心。
IV
His soul stretched tight across the skies
That fade behind a city block,
Or trampled by insistent feet
At four and five and six o'clock
And short square fingers stuffing pipes,
And evening newspapers, and eyes
Assured of certain certainties,
The conscience of a blackened street
Impatient to assume the world.
I am moved by fancies that are curled
Around these images, and cling:
The notion of some infinitely gentle
Infinitely suffering thing.
Wipe your hand across your mouth, and laugh;
The worlds revolve like ancient women
Gathering fuel in vacant lots.
四
他的灵魂紧紧拉过了那片
消失于一座城市大钟后面的天空，
他的灵魂给不停的脚步踩踏着，
在四点、五点和六点钟。
又短又粗的手指填着烟斗，
一张张晚报，还有深信
某些必然的事的眼睛，
一条暗黑的街道的意识
急于要掌握这个世界。
我被那缭绕着、紧抱着
这些意象的幻想感动，
一种无穷的温柔的
无穷的痛苦的事物的概念。
用手擦一下你的嘴，然后大笑，
世界旋转着，像个古老的妇人
在空地中拣煤渣。
