庞德 地铁车站 人群中这些脸庞的隐现; 湿漉漉、黑黝黝的树枝上的花瓣。 In a station of the metro The apparition ofthese faces in the crowd Petals on a wet, black bough Ezra pound
庞德 地铁车站 人群中这些脸庞的隐现； 湿漉漉、黑黝黝的树枝上的花瓣。 In a Station of the Metro The apparition of these faces in the crowd： Petals on a wet, black bough. —— Ezra Pound
The Cross-Roads Amy lowell a bullet through his heart at dawn. On the table a letter signed with a woman ' s name. a wind that goes howlinground the and weeping as in shame. Cold November dawn peeping through the windows cold dawn creep ing over the floor, creeping up his cold legs, creeping over his cold body, creeping across his cold face a glaze of thin yellow sunlight on the staring eyes. Wind Howling through bent branches a wind which never own Howling, wailing The gazing eyes glitter in the sunlight. The lids are frozen open and the eyes glitter The thudding of a pick on hard earth. Aspade grindin and crunching. Overhead, branches writhing, winding, inter lacing, unwinding, scattering
The Cross-Roads Amy Lowell A bullet through his heart at dawn. On the table a letter signed with a woman's name. A wind that goes howling round the house, and weeping as in shame. Cold November dawn peeping through the windows, cold dawn creeping over the floor, creeping up his cold legs, creeping over his cold body, creeping across his cold face. A glaze of thin yellow sunlight on the staring eyes. Wind Howling through bent branches. A wind which never dies down. Howling, wailing. The gazing eyes glitter in the sunlight. The lids are frozen open and the eyes glitter. The thudding of a pick on hard earth. A spade grinding and crunching. Overhead, branches writhing, winding, interlacing, unwinding, scattering;
tortured twinings, tossings, creaking. Wind flinging branches apart drawing them together, whispering and whining among them. A waning, lobsided moon cutting through black clouds. Astream of pebbles and earth and the empty spade gleams clear in the moonlight, then is rammed again into the black earth. Tramping of feet. Men and he Squeaking of wheels Whoa! Ready Jim? All ready Something falls, settles, is still. Suicides have no coffin "Give us the stake. Jim. Now Pound! pound He'll never walk. Nailed to the ground An ash stick pierces his heart, if it buds the roots will hold him He is a part ofthe earth now, clay to clay. Overhead the branches sway
tortured twinings, tossings, creakings. Wind flinging branches apart, drawing them together, whispering and whining among them. A waning, lobsided moon cutting through black clouds. A stream of pebbles and earth and the empty spade gleams clear in the moonlight, then is rammed again into the black earth. Tramping of feet. Men and horses. Squeaking of wheels. "Whoa! Ready, Jim?" "All ready." Something falls, settles, is still. Suicides have no coffin. "Give us the stake, Jim. Now." Pound! Pound! "He'll never walk. Nailed to the ground." An ash stick pierces his heart, if it buds the roots will hold him. He is a part of the earth now, clay to clay. Overhead the branches sway
and writhe and twist in the wind he ll never walk with a bullet in his heart, and an ash stick nailing him to the cold, black ground Six months he lay still. Six months. And the water welled up in his body and soft blue spots chequered it. He lay still, for the ash stick held him in place. Six months! Then her face came out of a mist of green Pink and white and frail like Dresden china, lilies-of-the -valley at her breast, puce-coloured silk sheening about her. Under he young green leaves, the horse at a foot-pace, the high yellow wheels of the chaise scarcely turning, her face, rippling like grain a-blowing, under her puce-coloured bonnet; and burning beside her, flaming within his correct blue coat and brass buttons is someone what has dimmed the sun? The horse steps on a rolling stone a wind in the branches makes a moan
and writhe, and twist in the wind. He'll never walk with a bullet in his heart, and an ash stick nailing him to the cold, black ground. Six months he lay still. Six months. And the water welled up in his body, and soft blue spots chequered it. He lay still, for the ash stick held him in place. Six months! Then her face came out of a mist of green. Pink and white and frail like Dresden china, lilies-of-the-valley at her breast, puce-coloured silk sheening about her. Under the young green leaves, the horse at a foot-pace, the high yellow wheels of the chaise scarcely turning, her face, rippling like grain a-blowing, under her puce-coloured bonnet; and burning beside her, flaming within his correct blue coat and brass buttons, is someone. What has dimmed the sun? The horse steps on a rolling stone; a wind in the branches makes a moan
The little leaves tremble and shake, turn and quake, over and over tearing their stems. There is a shower ofyoung leave and a sudden-sprung gale wails in the trees The yellow-wheeled chaise is rocking-- rocking and all the branches are knocking--knocking. The sun in the sky is a flat red plate the branches creak and grate. She screams and cowers, for the green foliage is a lowering wave surging to smother her. But she sees nothin The stake holds firm. The body writhes, the body squirms The blue spots widen, the flesh tears, but the stake wearsw in the deep black ground. It holds the body in the still black ground Two years! The body has been in the ground two years. It is worn away it is clay to clay. Where the heart moulders, a greenish dust the stake is thrust. Late August it is, and night; a night flauntingly Jeweled
The little leaves tremble and shake, turn and quake, over and over, tearing their stems. There is a shower of young leaves, and a sudden-sprung gale wails in the trees. The yellow-wheeled chaise is rocking -- rocking, and all the branches are knocking -- knocking. The sun in the sky is a flat, red plate, the branches creak and grate. She screams and cowers, for the green foliage is a lowering wave surging to smother her. But she sees nothing. The stake holds firm. The body writhes, the body squirms. The blue spots widen, the flesh tears, but the stake wears well in the deep, black ground. It holds the body in the still, black ground. Two years! The body has been in the ground two years. It is worn away; it is clay to clay. Where the heart moulders, a greenish dust, the stake is thrust. Late August it is, and night; a night flauntingly jeweled