The Snow Man
WALLACE STEVENS 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.
Snowman
Original work by Wallace Stevens
Translated by Xiaofeng
He must have the feeling of winter to be able to gaze at the snowfields and ice seas, and gaze at the snow-covered branches. Pines and cypresses; He has been waiting for a long time in the severe cold, Witnessing the pine trees covered with ice and snow, The January sunshine covering the spruce trees with colorful colors; He did not care about the sorrow of the cold wind, The remaining dead leaves beat the beat; That is The sounds of nature from the earth, howling together with the wind, echoed in this desolate stage; the lonely audience in the snowy field forgot everything and me, and assumed a posture of attention:
There is nothing in the first place, nothingness is exist.
"My Uncle's Monocle"
One
"Mother of the Sky, Queen of the Clouds,
Oh, of the Sun Scepter, crown of the moon,
Nothing, no, no, absolutely nothing
Like the sharp edge of two attacking words.”
In this way, I mocked her with brilliant poetry.
Or am I making fun of myself?
I wish I were a stone but with a brain.
Thoughts spewed out the sea of ??foam, and again she
These bright bubbles secretly popped up.
Then, the saltier well deep inside my body
welled up, bursting out with syllables like splashing water.
Two
Red birds fly across the golden floor.
He is in the chorus of wind, mist and wings
The red bird looking for a seat - the moment he finds it
He will swoop in A heavy rain.
Should I smooth out this wrinkled thing?
I am a rich man and say hello to the heirs;
Because of this, I also say hello to spring.
The one who sang Li songs to me was the singing group that came to welcome me.
And spring can never cross the meridian again.
But you, blessed by anecdotes,
pretend to believe in a starry knowledge.
Three
So, sitting by the pool in the mountains, the ancient
Chinese people dress up, or polish their beards on the Yangtze River
, do they have nothing to ask for?
I don’t want to play the historical flat scale.
You know, the beauties of Kitagawa Utama
Exploring the purpose of love in their talking buns
Do you remember the towering mountains of Bath Hot Spring? Headgear.
Yeah! There is not even a strand of curly hair left in nature.
Have all the hairdressers’ lives been in vain?
Why do you show no mercy to these hard-working ghosts
You come out of your sleep with clouds on your temples in confusion?
Four
The sweet and flawless fruit of life seems
to fall to the earth entirely due to its own weight.
When you were still Eve, now the sour juice
Untasted, sweet in the bliss of the orchard.
The apple, like all skulls, is suitable
to be a book that helps us understand the circle,
it is as brilliantly shaped as the skull
>Something that rots and returns to the earth
But it has another specialty: as the fruit of love
It is a book too crazy to read,
Unless one reads it just to pass the time.
Five
High in the western sky, a furious star burns.
It was placed here for the red-flamed young men
and the sweet-smelling virgins beside them.
The intensity of love is the same as the vitality of the earth.
*** use the same scale. In my opinion,
The rapid tapping of fireflies
longly ticks another year.
What about you? When your first image
shows your connection with all dust, please remember
how those crickets jumped out in the vast night
Nurture Their grass is like a group of small relatives.
Six
If a forty-year-old man paints a lake
the fleeting blues will surely emerge for them
The grey-blue of the roots, the color that pervades the world.
A substance that is prevalent in our bodies.
However, in our romantic encounter, the disciples had insight into the turmoil
and their breathless brush strokes
recorded every strange and bizarre event 's turning point.
As the hair of the disciples grows bald, the passion
will also shrink, hiding in the compass and the curriculum,
In the exile of introspection, preaching endlessly.
This is a theme just for hyacinths.
Seven
Farther than the sun, the mules ridden by angels
walk through the dazzling passes
They The bell rings, and Ding Lingling comes to the world.
The mule drivers choose the path gracefully.
At this time, a group of centurions laughed wildly
Slamming the wine cups that screamed on the table.
The ultimate meaning of this fable is:
I don’t know if the honey of heaven will come
But the sweetness of the world can come back at any time.
Imagine that during their travels, these messengers brought with them a flower girl who was promoted by eternal blooming.
Eight
Like a nerd, I watch, in love,
Old situations touch new minds.
It sprouts, it blooms, it bears fruit and then dies.
This ordinary metaphor reveals a truth.
The flowering period is over. We are fruits from now on.
Two golden gourds, full of growth on our own vines,
Entering the autumn air, splashed with frost flowers, getting older and fatter,
grotesquely deformed . We hang—
Like warty pumpkins, streaked and stained.
The laughing sky will look down at the two of us
The bone-eroding winter rain washes us into empty shells.
Nine
In a poem that is frantic in action, noisy and screaming
wandering and rushing, fast and sure
When People's fatal thoughts, in the chaos of war
Achieve deceitful destiny, Cupid's guardian
Let's give a dojo to the forty-year-old faith.
The most respectable heart and the most wanton fantasy
It is still not as open and open as you.
In order that the sacrifice may be rich, I consult all voices,
all thoughts, everything, the music
and the spirit of the knights. But where can I find the most gorgeous movement to accompany this great carol?
Ten
The rich young men of fantasy left behind a memory book of mysterious outpourings in their poems,
watering their roughness automatically. of soil.
I'm a yeoman farmer, just like those guys.
But I don’t know the magic tree or the fragrant branch
I have never seen the silver-red and golden-vermilion fruits.
But after all, I recognize a big tree
It looks similar to what I have in my head.
It stood like a giant, its spire calling
All birds, at some point in their lives.
When the bird flew away, the spire was still pointed at the top of the tree.
Eleven
If everything is really sex, any trembling hand
can make us, like dolls, scream "want it".
But please note that fate will shamelessly betray us
We are moody, groaning, and yelling when we are sad
We can never make bold statements with a guilty conscience. In the midst of the madness
Create out all kinds of things, completely ignoring
the first and highest law.
This miserable time!
Last night, we sat together, and the pool of red pink beside us
and the lilies flying in the bright chrome yellow
were cut into pieces, Aiming at the cold light of the stars,
and a frog roared an annoying harmony in its belly.
Twelve
It was a blue dove, hovering sideways in the blue sky, one circle, one circle, and another circle.
It was a white dove, tired of flying,
fluttering its wings and fluttering towards the ground. Like a dark rabbi
As a young man, I observed human nature in my noble research
. Every day I find
human validation a little piece of my chopped up world.
Later, like a rose rabbi, I pursued
and am still pursuing, the origin and course of love, but only now do I understand
The shadow of the fluttering thing is so clear.