These--Willianm Carlos Willianms

These

By William Carlos  Williams

are the desolate,dark weeks,
when nature in its barrenness
equals the stupidity of man.

The year plunges into night
and the heart plunges
lower than night

to an empty,windswept place
without sun stars or moon
but a peculiar light as of thought

that spins a dark fire---
whirling upon itself until,
in the cold ,it kindles

to make a man aware of nothing
that he knows, not loneliness
itself--Not a ghost but

would be embraced--emptiness,
despair --(They
whine and whistle)among

the flashes and booms of war
;houses of whose rooms
the cold is greater than can be thought,

the people gone that we loved,
the beds lying empty, the couches
damp, the chairs unused--

Hide it away somewhere
out of the mind,let it get roots
and grow,unrelated to jealous

ears and eyes --for itself.
in this mine they come to dig --all.
Is this the counterfoil to sweetest

music?The source of poetry that
seeing the clock stopped,says,
The clock has stopped

that ticked yesterday so well?
and hears the sound of lakewater 
splashing--that is now stone.

所有跟帖： 

• 用这首著名的诗和楼下机器写的遥远。与你分享，也顶你 -bymyheart- ♀ (14 bytes) () 06/10/2010 postreply 14:05:55

• 谢谢分享。 -Ji.Q.Zhang- ♂ (0 bytes) () 06/11/2010 postreply 02:27:22

• 谢谢新新，机器来一同欣赏这首诗。 -bymyheart- ♀ (0 bytes) () 06/11/2010 postreply 13:25:34

• 问心君周末好! -红袖添香老板娘- ♀ (0 bytes) () 06/11/2010 postreply 14:29:05