One must have a mind of winter

To regard the frost and the boughs

Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;

And have been cold a long time

To behold the junipers shagged with ice,

The spruces rough in the distant glitter

Of the January sun; and not to think

Of any misery in the sound of the wind,

In the sound of a few leaves,

Which is the sound of the land

Full of the same wind

That is blowing in the same bare place

For the listener, who listens in the snow,

And, nothing himself, beholds

Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.

只要想起一生中后悔的事

梅花便落了下来

比如看她游泳到河的另一岸

比如登上一株松木梯子

危险的事固然美丽

不如看她骑马归来

面颊温暖

羞惭。低下头，回答着皇帝

一面镜子永远等候她

让她坐到镜中常坐的地方

望着窗外，只要想起一生中后悔的事

梅花便落满了南山

The way a crow

Shook down on me

The dust of snow

From a hemlock tree

Has given my heart

A change of mood

And saved some part

Of a day I had rued.

Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,

Because their words had forked no lightning they

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright

Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,

And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight

Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,

Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

世界巨大

我以渺小来爱它

时间悠长

我以短暂来爱它

我急切、滚烫

配得上慢慢活着

也配得上突然死亡

Not the attendance of stones,

nor the applauding wind,

shall let you know

you have arrived,

not the sea that celebrates

only departures,

nor the mountains,

nor the dying cities.

Nothing will tell you

where you are.

Each moment is a place

you’ve never been.

You can walk

believing you cast

a light around you.

But how will you know?

The present is always dark.

Its maps are black,

rising from nothing,

describing,

in their slow ascent

into themselves,

their own voyage,

its emptiness,

the bleak, temperate

necessity of its completion.

As they rise into being

they are like breath.

And if they are studied at all

it is only to find,

too late, what you thought

were concerns of yours

do not exist.

Your house is not marked

on any of them,

nor are your friends,

waiting for you to appear,

nor are your enemies,

listing your faults.

Only you are there,

saying hello

to what you will be,

and the black grass

is holding up the black stars.

我多想让自己是一棵树

一棵不成材的树

长美丽的叶子，开漂亮的花

一年年没用地站在那儿

有阳光、空气和泥土就够了

Almost dawn

Blackbirds on the telephone wire

Waiting

As I eat yesterday's

Forgotten sandwich

At 6 a.m

An a quiet Sunday morning

One shoe in the corner

Standing upright

The other laying on it's

Side

Yes, some lives were made to be

Wasted

In a field

I am the absence

of field.

This is

always the case.

Wherever I am

I am what is missing.

When I walk

I part the air

and always

the air moves in

to fill the spaces

where my body’s been.

We all have reasons

for moving.

I move

to keep things whole.