诗歌欣赏：Batuschka

　　From yonder gilded minaret

　　Beside the steel－blue Neva set，

　　I faintly catch， from time to time，

　　The sweet， aerial midnight chime——

　　"God save the Tsar！"

　　Above the ravelins and the moats

　　Of the white citadel it floats；

　　And men in dungeons far beneath

　　Listen， and pray， and gnash their teeth——

　　"God save the Tsar！"

　　The soft reiterations sweep

　　Across the horror of their sleep，

　　a term of endearment applied

　　to the Tsar in Russian folk－song．

　　As if some daemon in his glee

　　Were mocking at their misery——

　　"God save the Tsar！"

　　In his Red Palace over there，

　　Wakeful， he needs must hear the prayer．

　　How can it drown the broken cries

　　Wrung from his children's agonies?——

　　"God save the Tsar！"

　　Father they called him from of old——

　　Batuschka！ ． ． ． How his heart is cold！

　　Wait till a million scourged men

　　Rise in their awful might， and then——

　　God save the Tsar！

诗歌欣赏：Camma

　　Camma

　　（To Ellen Terry）

　　As one who poring on a Grecian urn

　　Scans the fair shapes some Attic hand hath made，

　　God with slim goddess， goodly man with maid，

　　And for their beauty's sake is loth to turn

　　And face the obvious day， must I not yearn

　　For many a secret moon of indolent bliss，

　　When in midmost shrine of Artemis

　　I see thee standing， antique－limbed， and stern?

　　And yet － methinks I'd rather see thee play

　　That serpent of old Nile， whose witchery

　　Made Emperors drunken， － come， great Egypt， shake

　　Our stage with all thy mimic pageants！ Nay，

　　I am grown sick of unreal passions， make

　　The world thine Actium， me thine Anthony！

诗歌欣赏：A Prayer for My Son

　　Bid a strong ghost stand at the head

　　That my Michael may sleep sound，

　　Nor cry， nor turn in the bed

　　Till his morning meal come round；

　　And may departing twilight keep

　　All dread afar till morning‘s back，

　　That his mother may not lack

　　Her fill of sleep．

　　Bid the ghost have sword in fist：

　　Some there are， for I avow

　　Such devilish things exist，

　　Who have planned his murder， for they know

　　Of some most haughty deed or thought

　　That waits upon his future days，

　　And would through hatred of the bays

　　Bring that to nought．

　　Though You can fashion everything

　　From nothing every day， and teach

　　The morning stars to sing，

　　You have lacked articulate speech

　　To tell Your simplest want， and known，

　　Wailing upon a woman‘s knee，

　　All of that worst ignominy

　　Of flesh and bone；

　　And when through all the town there ran

　　The servants of Your enemy，

　　A woman and a man，

　　Unless the Holy Writings lie，

　　Hurried through the smooth and rough

　　And through the fertile and waste，

　　Protecting， till the danger past，

　　With human love．

　　A Path Between Houses

　　Where is the dwelling place of light?

　　And where is the house of darkness?

　　Go about； walk the limits of the land．

　　Do you know a path between them?

　　The enigma of August．

　　Season of dust and teenage arson．

　　The nightly whine of pickup trucks

　　bouncing through the sumac

　　beneath the Co－Operative power lines，

　　country & western booming from woofers

　　carved into the doors． A trace of smoke

　　when the wins shifts，

　　spun gravel rattling the fenders of cars，

　　the groan of clutch and transaxle，

　　pickup trucks， arriving at a friction point，

　　gunning from nowhere to nowhere．

　　The duets begin． A compact disc，

　　a single line of muted trumpet，

　　plays against the sirens

　　pursuing the smoke of grass fires．

　　I love a painter． On a new canvas，

　　she paints the neighbor's field．

　　She paints it without trees，

　　and paints the field beyond the field，

　　the field that has no trees，

　　and the upturned Jesus boat，

　　made into a planter，

　　"For God so loved the world． ． ．"

　　a citation from John， chapter and verse，

　　splattered across the bow

　　the boat spills roses into the weeds．

　　What does the stray dog know，

　　after a taste of what is holy?

　　The sun pulls her shadow toward me，

　　an undulant shape that shelters the grass，

　　an unaimed thing．

　　In the gray house， the tiny house，

　　in '52 there was a fire． The old woman，

　　drunk and smoking cigarettes， fell asleep．

　　The winter of the blizzard and her son

　　Not coming home from the Yalu．

　　There are times I still smell smoke．

　　There are days I know she set the fire

　　and why．

　　Last night， lightning to the south．

　　Here， nothing， though along the river

　　the wind upends a willow，

　　a gorgon of leaves and bottom－up clod

　　browning in the afternoon sun．

　　In the museum we dispute

　　the poet's epiphany call——

　　white light or more warmth?

　　And what is the Greek word for the flesh，

　　and the body apart from the spirit，

　　meaning even the body opposed to the spirit?

　　I do not know this word．

　　Dante claims there are pools of fire

　　in the middle regions of hell，

　　but the lowest circles are lakes of ice，

　　offering the hope our greatest sins

　　aren't the passions but indifference．

　　And the willow grew for years

　　With no real hold upon the ground．

　　How the accident occurred

　　and how the sky got dark：

　　Six miles from my house，

　　a drunk leaves the Holiday Inn

　　spins on 104 and smacks a utility pole．

　　The power line sparks

　　across the hood of his Ford

　　and illuminates the crazed spider web

　　of the windshield． His bloody tongue burns

　　with a slurry gospel． Around me，

　　the lights go down，

　　the way death is described

　　as armor crashing to the ground，

　　the soul having already departed

　　for another place． Was it his body I heard

　　leaning against the horn，

　　the body's final song， before the body

　　slumped sideways in the seat?

　　When I was a child，

　　I would wake at night

　　and imagine a field of asteroids， rolling

　　across the walls of my room．

　　In fact， I've seen them，

　　like the last herd of buffalo，

　　grazing against the background of fixed stars．

　　Plate 420 shows the asteroid 433 Eros，

　　the bright point of light， as it closes its approach

　　to light． I loose myself in Cygnus，

　　ancient kamikaze swan，

　　rising or diving to earth，

　　Draco， snarling at the polestar，

　　and Pegasus， stone horse of the gods，

　　ecstatic， looking one last time at home．

　　August and the enigma it is．

　　Days when I move in crabbed circles，

　　nights when I walk with Jesus through the fields．

　　What finally stands between us

　　and the world of flying things?

　　Mobbed by jays， the Cooper's hawk

　　drops the dead bird． It tumbles

　　beneath the cedar tree，

　　tiny acrobat of death，

　　a dead bird released

　　in a failed act of atonement．

　　A nest of wasps buzzing beneath the shingles，

　　flickers drilling the cottonwood，

　　jays， sparrows， the insistent wrens，

　　the language of birds， heads cocked，

　　staring the moon－eyed through the air．

　　Sedge， asters， and fleabane，

　　red tins of gasoline and glowing cigarettes，

　　the midnight voice of a fourteen－year－old girl

　　wailing the word "blue" from the pickup's open doors，

　　illuminated by the dome light，

　　the sulphurous rasp of another struck match，

　　and foxglove， goldenrod and chicory，

　　the dry flowers of late summer，

　　an exhaustion I no longer look at．

　　Time passes． The authorities

　　gather the wreckage， the whirr

　　of cicadas， and light dissembles the sky．

　　A wind shift， and the Cedar Creek fire

　　snaps the backfire line

　　and roars through the cemetery．

　　In the morning，

　　I walk a path between houses．

　　I cross to the water

　　and circle again， the redwings

　　forcing me back from the marsh．

　　Smoke rises from a fire

　　still smoldering along the power lines，

　　flaring and exhausting itself

　　in the shape of something lost．

　　Grass fires， fires through the scrub

　　of the clear－cut， fires in the pulpwood，

　　cemetery fires，

　　the powder of ash still untracked

　　beneath the enormous trees，

　　fires that explode the seed cones

　　on the pines， the smoke of set fires

　　and every good intention gone wrong，

　　scorching the monuments

　　above the graves of the dead．