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Post by 溪山 on Dec 1, 2023 1:46:24 GMT -5
10 of the Best Robert Frost Poems Everyone Should Read10 of the Best Robert Frost Poems Everyone Should Read By Dr Oliver Tearle (Loughborough University) Any list of the top ten best poems by such a major poet as Robert Frost (1874-1963) is bound to inspire disagreement or, at least, discussion; but we thought we’d throw our literary cap in the ring and offer our own selection of Robert Frost’s greatest poems, along with a little bit about each poem. Do you agree with our recommendations? What should/shouldn’t be on this list, in your view?
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Post by 溪山 on Dec 1, 2023 1:49:38 GMT -5
说到“最”，当然是见仁见智。
懒人我按图索骥，搬诗欣赏。
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Post by 溪山 on Dec 1, 2023 1:50:36 GMT -5
1.
Mending Wall
BY ROBERT FROST
Something there is that doesn’t love a wall,
That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,
And spills the upper boulders in the sun;
And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.
The work of hunters is another thing:
I have come after them and made repair
Where they have left not one stone on a stone,
But they would have the rabbit out of hiding,
To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,
No one has seen them made or heard them made,
But at spring mending-time we find them there.
I let my neighbor know beyond the hill;
And on a day we meet to walk the line
And set the wall between us once again.
We keep the wall between us as we go.
To each the boulders that have fallen to each.
And some are loaves and some so nearly balls
We have to use a spell to make them balance:
‘Stay where you are until our backs are turned!’
We wear our fingers rough with handling them.
Oh, just another kind of out-door game,
One on a side. It comes to little more:
There where it is we do not need the wall:
He is all pine and I am apple orchard.
My apple trees will never get across
And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.
He only says, ‘Good fences make good neighbors.’
Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder
If I could put a notion in his head:
‘Why do they make good neighbors? Isn’t it
Where there are cows? But here there are no cows.
Before I built a wall I’d ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offense.
Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That wants it down.’ I could say ‘Elves’ to him,
But it’s not elves exactly, and I’d rather
He said it for himself. I see him there
Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top
In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.
He moves in darkness as it seems to me,
Not of woods only and the shade of trees.
He will not go behind his father’s saying,
And he likes having thought of it so well
He says again, ‘Good fences make good neighbors.’
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Post by 溪山 on Dec 1, 2023 1:54:33 GMT -5
"Mending Wall" Robert Frost listen to poet himself recite his poem
“Mending Wall” Video Summary
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Post by 溪山 on Dec 1, 2023 1:57:20 GMT -5
By Dr Oliver Tearle (Loughborough University):
One of Frost’s most famous poems, ‘Mending Wall’ is about the human race’s primitive urge to ‘mark its territory’ and our fondness for setting clear boundaries for our houses and gardens. Whilst Frost believes that such markers are a throwback to an earlier stage in mankind’s development, his neighbour believes that (as we have discussed here) ‘Good fences make good neighbours.’
The poem is frequently misinterpreted, as Frost himself observed in 1962, shortly before his death. ‘People are frequently misunderstanding it or misinterpreting it.’ But he went on to remark, ‘The secret of what it means I keep.’ We can analyse ‘Mending Wall’ as a poem contrasting two approaches to life and human relationships: the approach embodied by Frost himself in the poem (or by the speaker of his poem, at least), and the approach represented by his neighbour. It is Frost’s neighbour, rather than Frost himself (or Frost’s speaker), who insists: ‘Good fences make good neighbours.’
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Post by 溪山 on Dec 1, 2023 2:01:48 GMT -5
这首诗幽默哲理。 ‘Good fences make good neighbors.’ ---- This saying can be open to different interpretations. Fuzzy logic.  |
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Post by 溪山 on Dec 5, 2023 23:32:30 GMT -5
梁实秋翻译得真好。 Mending Wall
BY ROBERT FROST
Something there is that doesn’t love a wall,
That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,
And spills the upper boulders in the sun;
And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.
The work of hunters is another thing:
I have come after them and made repair
Where they have left not one stone on a stone,
But they would have the rabbit out of hiding,
To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,
No one has seen them made or heard them made,
But at spring mending-time we find them there.
I let my neighbor know beyond the hill;
And on a day we meet to walk the line
And set the wall between us once again.
We keep the wall between us as we go.
To each the boulders that have fallen to each.
And some are loaves and some so nearly balls
We have to use a spell to make them balance:
‘Stay where you are until our backs are turned!’
We wear our fingers rough with handling them.
Oh, just another kind of out-door game,
One on a side. It comes to little more:
There where it is we do not need the wall:
He is all pine and I am apple orchard.
My apple trees will never get across
And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.
He only says, ‘Good fences make good neighbors.’
Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder
If I could put a notion in his head:
‘Why do they make good neighbors? Isn’t it
Where there are cows? But here there are no cows.
Before I built a wall I’d ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offense.
Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That wants it down.’ I could say ‘Elves’ to him,
But it’s not elves exactly, and I’d rather
He said it for himself. I see him there
Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top
In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.
He moves in darkness as it seems to me,
Not of woods only and the shade of trees.
He will not go behind his father’s saying,
And he likes having thought of it so well
He says again, ‘Good fences make good neighbors.’
| 补墙
有一点什么，它大概是不喜欢墙，
它使得墙脚下的冻地涨得隆起，
大白天的把墙头石块弄得纷纷落；
使得墙裂了缝，二人并肩都走得过。
士绅们行猎时又是另一番糟蹋：
他们要掀开每块石头上的石头，
我总是跟在他们后面去修补，
但是他们要把兔子从隐处赶出来，
讨好那群汪汪叫的狗。我说的墙缝
是怎么生的，谁也没看见，谁也没听见，
但是到了春季补墙时，就看见在那里。
我通知了住在山那边的邻居；
有一天我们约会好，巡视地界一番，
在我们两家之间再把墙重新砌起。
我们走的时候，中间隔着一垛墙。
落在各边的石头，由各自去料理。
有些是长块的，有些几乎圆得像球，
需要一点魔术才能把它们放稳当：
“老实呆在那里，等我们转过身再落下！”
我们搬弄石头，把手指都磨粗了。
啊！这不过又是一种户外游戏，
一个人站在一边。此外没有多少用处：
在墙那地方，我们根本不需要墙：
他那边全是松树，我这边是苹果园。
我的苹果树永远也不会踱过去
吃掉他松树下的松球，我对他说。
他只是说：“好篱笆造出好邻家。”
春天在我心里作祟，我在悬想
能不能把一个念头注入他的脑里：
“为什么好篱笆造出好邻家？是否指着
有牛的人家？可是我们此地又没有牛。
我在造墙之前，先要弄个清楚，
圈进来的是什么，圈出去的是什么，
并且我可能开罪的是些什么人家，
有一点什么，它不喜欢墙，
它要推倒它。”我可以对他说这是“鬼”。
但严格说也不是鬼，我想这事还是
由他自己决定吧。我看见他在那里
搬一块石头，两手紧抓着石头的上端，
像一个旧石器时代的武装的野蛮人。
我觉得他是在黑暗中摸索，
这黑暗不仅是来自深林与树荫。
他不肯探究他父亲传给他的格言，
他想到这句格言，便如此的喜欢，
于是再说一遍，“好篱笆造出好邻家”。
（梁实秋 译） |
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Post by 溪山 on Dec 5, 2023 23:34:32 GMT -5
2.
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
BY ROBERT FROST
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
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Post by 溪山 on Dec 5, 2023 23:35:39 GMT -5
interestingliterature.com/2017/06/10-of-the-best-robert-frost-poems-everyone-should-read/ ： One of Frost’s best-loved poems if not the best-loved, ‘Stopping by Woods’ was inspired by a real event in Frost’s life: stopping by the woods on his way home, the poet despaired that he was poor and didn’t have enough money to provide for his family, but rather than give up he decided to soldier on and ‘choose life’ rather than the tempting escape offered by the woods. Everything else is silent around them, apart from the soft wind and the slight sound of snowfall. Frost concludes by telling us that, lovely, dark, and inviting as the woods are, he has prior commitments that he must honour, so he must leave this place of peace and tranquillity and continue on his journey before he can sleep for the night. Observe the highly unusual and controlled rhyme scheme that Frost uses: he doesn’t just employ a rhyme scheme, but instead he links each stanza to the next through repeating the same rhymes at different points in the succeeding stanza. There’s also Frost’s use of regular iambic tetrameter throughout the poem, and his choice to end-stop each line: there’s no enjambment, there are no run-on lines, and this lends the poem an air of being a series of simple, pithy statements or observations, rather than a more profound meditation. There’s something inevitable about it: it’s less a Wordsworthian ‘spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings’ than a more modern acknowledgment that most of us, as W. H. Davies put it in another poem from around this time, ‘have no time to stand and stare’ at nature.
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Post by 溪山 on Dec 5, 2023 23:38:53 GMT -5
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Post by 溪山 on Dec 5, 2023 23:40:55 GMT -5
wiki:
"Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening" is a poem by Robert Frost, written in 1922, and published in 1923 in his New Hampshire volume. Imagery, personification, and repetition are prominent in the work. In a letter to Louis Untermeyer, Frost called it "my best bid for remembrance"
Frost wrote the poem in June 1922 at his house in Shaftsbury, Vermont. He had been up the entire night writing the long poem "New Hampshire" from the poetry collection of the same name, and had finally finished when he realized morning had come. He went out to view the sunrise and suddenly got the idea for "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening". He wrote the new poem "about the snowy evening and the little horse as if I'd had a hallucination" in just "a few minutes without strain."
The poem is written in iambic tetrameter in the Rubaiyat stanza created by Edward FitzGerald, who adopted the style from Hakim Omar Khayyam, the 12th-century Persian poet and mathematician. Each verse (save the last) follows an AABA rhyming scheme, with the following verse's A line rhyming with that verse's B line, which is a chain rhyme (another example is the terza rima used in Dante's Inferno). Overall, the rhyme scheme is AABA BBCB CCDC DDDD.
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Post by 溪山 on Dec 5, 2023 23:46:34 GMT -5
wiki:
In the early morning of November 23, 1963, Sid Davis of Westinghouse Broadcasting reported the arrival of President John F. Kennedy's casket at the White House. Since Frost was one of the President's favorite poets, Davis concluded his report with a passage from this poem but was overcome with emotion as he signed off.
At the funeral of former Canadian prime minister Pierre Trudeau, on October 3, 2000, his eldest son, Justin, rephrased the last stanza of this poem in his eulogy: "The woods are lovely, dark and deep. He has kept his promises and earned his sleep."
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Post by 溪山 on Dec 5, 2023 23:49:26 GMT -5
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
BY ROBERT FROST
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
June 1922
| 雪夜林边驻马
罗伯特·弗罗斯特
我知道谁是这林子的主人。
尽管他的屋子远在村中；
他也看不见我在此逗留，
凝视这积满白雪的树林。
我的小马想必感到奇怪：
为何停存树林和冰封的湖边，
附近既看不到一间农舍，
又在一年中最黑暗的夜晚。
它轻轻地摇了一下佩铃，
探询是否出了什么差错。
林中毫无回响一片寂静。
只有微风习习雪花飘落。
这树林多么可爱、幽深，
但我必须履行我的诺言，
睡觉前还有许多路要走啊，
睡觉前还有许多路要赶。
顾子欣 译 |
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Post by 溪山 on Mar 2, 2024 2:19:26 GMT -5
3.
Birches
BY ROBERT FROST
When I see birches bend to left and right
Across the lines of straighter darker trees,
I like to think some boy’s been swinging them.
But swinging doesn’t bend them down to stay
As ice-storms do. Often you must have seen them
Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning
After a rain. They click upon themselves
As the breeze rises, and turn many-colored
As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.
Soon the sun’s warmth makes them shed crystal shells
Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust—
Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away
You'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen.
They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load,
And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed
So low for long, they never right themselves:
You may see their trunks arching in the woods
Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground
Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair
Before them over their heads to dry in the sun.
But I was going to say when Truth broke in
With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm
I should prefer to have some boy bend them
As he went out and in to fetch the cows—
Some boy too far from town to learn baseball,
Whose only play was what he found himself,
Summer or winter, and could play alone.
One by one he subdued his father's trees
By riding them down over and over again
Until he took the stiffness out of them,
And not one but hung limp, not one was left
For him to conquer. He learned all there was
To learn about not launching out too soon
And so not carrying the tree away
Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise
To the top branches, climbing carefully
With the same pains you use to fill a cup
Up to the brim, and even above the brim.
Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish,
Kicking his way down through the air to the ground.
So was I once myself a swinger of birches.
And so I dream of going back to be.
It’s when I’m weary of considerations,
And life is too much like a pathless wood
Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs
Broken across it, and one eye is weeping
From a twig’s having lashed across it open.
I'd like to get away from earth awhile
And then come back to it and begin over.
May no fate willfully misunderstand me
And half grant what I wish and snatch me away
Not to return. Earth’s the right place for love:
I don’t know where it's likely to go better.
I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree,
And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk
Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,
But dipped its top and set me down again.
That would be good both going and coming back.
One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.
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Post by 溪山 on Mar 2, 2024 2:41:04 GMT -5
wiki: "Birches" is a poem by American poet Robert Frost. First published in the August 1915 issue of The Atlantic Monthly together with "The Road Not Taken" and "The Sound of Trees" as "A Group of Poems". It was included in Frost's third collection of poetry Mountain Interval, which was published in 1916. Consisting of 59 lines, it is one of Robert Frost's most anthologized poems. Along with other poems that deal with rural landscape and wildlife, it shows Frost as a nature poet.
‘ Birches’. （zt) ‘One could do worse than be a swinger of birches’: so concludes this wonderful blank-verse meditation on the fun of playing around with these fine trees, swinging from them – even dying by falling from them. That’s the way to go! Unfortunately, the birches Frost sees in this poem turn out to have been bent, not by a boy swinging from them, but from an ice-storm – but Frost prefers the more romanticised notion of play his imagination dreams up. ‘Birches’ draws on Robert Frost’s childhood memories of swinging on birch trees as a boy. In summary, the poem is a meditation on these trees, which are supple (i.e. easily bent) but strong (not easily broken). Contrasting the birches with ‘straighter darker trees’ which surround them, Frost says he likes to think they are bent because a boy has been swinging on them. When Frost says that he would like to ‘come back to [nature] and begin over’, there’s a sense of wistfulness that extends far greater than birch-swinging, hinting at the adult’s vain yearning to return to childhood and live his life over again. |
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Post by 溪山 on Mar 2, 2024 2:58:39 GMT -5
"So was I once myself a swinger of birches. And so I dream of going back to be." --- only in a dream. "And life is too much like a pathless wood Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs Broken across it, and one eye is weeping From a twig’s having lashed across it open."   |
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Post by 溪山 on Mar 2, 2024 3:00:14 GMT -5
Birches
BY ROBERT FROST
When I see birches bend to left and right
Across the lines of straighter darker trees,
I like to think some boy’s been swinging them.
But swinging doesn’t bend them down to stay
As ice-storms do. Often you must have seen them
Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning
After a rain. They click upon themselves
As the breeze rises, and turn many-colored
As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.
Soon the sun’s warmth makes them shed crystal shells
Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust—
Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away
You'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen.
They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load,
And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed
So low for long, they never right themselves:
You may see their trunks arching in the woods
Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground
Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair
Before them over their heads to dry in the sun.
But I was going to say when Truth broke in
With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm
I should prefer to have some boy bend them
As he went out and in to fetch the cows—
Some boy too far from town to learn baseball,
Whose only play was what he found himself,
Summer or winter, and could play alone.
One by one he subdued his father's trees
By riding them down over and over again
Until he took the stiffness out of them,
And not one but hung limp, not one was left
For him to conquer. He learned all there was
To learn about not launching out too soon
And so not carrying the tree away
Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise
To the top branches, climbing carefully
With the same pains you use to fill a cup
Up to the brim, and even above the brim.
Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish,
Kicking his way down through the air to the ground.
So was I once myself a swinger of birches.
And so I dream of going back to be.
It’s when I’m weary of considerations,
And life is too much like a pathless wood
Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs
Broken across it, and one eye is weeping
From a twig’s having lashed across it open.
I'd like to get away from earth awhile
And then come back to it and begin over.
May no fate willfully misunderstand me
And half grant what I wish and snatch me away
Not to return. Earth’s the right place for love:
I don’t know where it's likely to go better.
I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree,
And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk
Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,
But dipped its top and set me down again.
That would be good both going and coming back.
One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.
| 《白桦树》
罗伯特·弗罗斯特
挺直、黑黑的树排列成行，只见
白桦树却弯下身子，向左，也向右，
我总以为有个孩子把白样“荡”弯了
可是“荡”一下不会叫它们一躬到底
再也起不来。这可是冰干的事。
下过一场冬雨，第二天，太阳出来，
你准会看到白桦上结满了冰。
一阵风吹起，树枝就咯喇喇响，
闪射出五彩缤纷，原来这一颤动，
冰块坼裂成瓷瓶上的无数细纹。
阳光的温暖接着使那水晶的硬壳
从树枝上崩落，一齐倾泻在雪地上——
这么一大堆碎玻璃尽够你打扫，
你还以为是天顶的华盖塌了下来。
压不起那么些重量的树枝，硬是给
按下去，直到贴近那贴地的枯草，
但并没折断；虽然压得这么低、这么久
那枝条再也抬不起头来。几年后
你会在森林里看到那些白桦树
弯曲着树身，树叶在地面上拖扫，
好像趴在地上的女孩子把一头长发
兜过头去．好让太阳把头发晒干。
方才我说到了哪里？是那雨后的冰柱
岔开了我的话头——我原是想说：
我宁可以为是个放牛的农家孩子
来回走过的时候把白话弄弯了。
这孩子．离城太远，没人教棒球，
他只能自个儿想出玩意儿来玩，
自个儿跟自个儿玩，不管夏天冬天，
他一株一株地征服他父亲的树，
一次又一次地把它们骑在胯下，
直到把树的倔强劲儿完全制服：
一株又一株都垂头丧气地低下来——
直到他再没有用武之地。他学会了
所有的花招：不立刻腾身跳出去，
免得一下子把树干扳到了地面。
他始终稳住身子，不摇不晃地，
直到那高高的顶枝上一一小心翼翼地
往上爬，那全神贯注的样儿．就像
把一杯水倒满，满到了杯口，
甚至满过了边缘。然后．纵身一跳，
他两脚先伸出去，在空中乱踢乱舞，
于是飕的一声，降落到地面。
当年，我自己也是“荡桦树”的能手，
现在还梦想着再去荡一回桦树，
那是每逢我厌倦于操心世事，
而人生太像一片没有小径的森林，
在里面摸索，一头撞在蛛网上，
只感到验上又热辣、又痒痒；
忽然，一根嫩枝迎面打来，
那一只给打中了的眼睛疼得直掉泪。
我真想暂时离开人世一会儿，
然后再回来，重新干它一番。可是，
别来个命运之神，故意曲解我，
只成全我愿望的一半，把我卷了走，
一去不返。你要爱，就扔不开人世。
我想不出还有哪儿是更好的去处。
我真想去爬白桦树，沿着雪白的树干
爬上乌黑的树枝，爬向那天心，
直到树身再支撑不住，树梢碰着地，
把我放下来。去去又回来，那该有多好
比“荡桦树”更没有意思的事．可有的是。
（方平译）
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Post by 边 草 on Mar 3, 2024 21:16:44 GMT -5
哦，溪山君打算把那“十首”全部单列出来吧？人的脑子真的不一样。有人居然能够写出这样的漂亮的诗来，对我真的是不可思议的事情。 我的“英译中”目前停留在“Fire and Ice”，两个星期了，自己无法满意，准备放弃了！  |
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Post by 溪山 on Mar 6, 2024 2:32:15 GMT -5
多搬几块砖，少一幢烂尾楼。 Frost 绝对有天分。 你可真认真, 或许 set the bar too high? 贴上来瞧瞧？ |
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Post by 溪山 on Mar 6, 2024 2:33:10 GMT -5
4.
Tree at my Window
by Robert Frost
Tree at my window, window tree,
My sash is lowered when night comes on;
But let there never be curtain drawn
Between you and me.
Vague dream-head lifted out of the ground,
And thing next most diffuse to cloud,
Not all your light tongues talking aloud
Could be profound.
But tree, I have seen you taken and tossed,
And if you have seen me when I slept,
You have seen me when I was taken and swept
And all but lost.
That day she put our heads together,
Fate had her imagination about her,
Your head so much concerned with outer,
Mine with inner, weather.
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Post by 溪山 on Mar 6, 2024 2:37:32 GMT -5
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Post by 溪山 on Mar 6, 2024 2:50:42 GMT -5
Poem Analyzed by Dr Oliver Tearle : Another tree poem, this. Many of Robert Frost’s greatest poems feature trees and woods, and many of his poems take as their starting-point a simple observation of nature that then prompts a deeper meditation. (We might compare his friend Edward Thomas here.) Frost begins by addressing the tree in tautological terms which almost recall a child’s song: ‘Tree at my window, window tree’. The last two lines add nothing to the meaning of the first four, but they set the blithe, relaxed tone that dominates the whole poem. The poet tells this ‘window tree’ that he lowers his sash window when night comes, closing it, but he doesn’t like to draw the curtain across the window to block out the tree. The final stanza earns this short poem its place on this list: it sees Frost identifying his ‘window tree’ as a kindred spirit, with the tree concerned with ‘outer’ and Frost with ‘inner, weather’.
Poem Analyzed by Emma Baldwin |
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Post by 溪山 on Mar 6, 2024 23:21:39 GMT -5
Tree at My Window
by Robert Frost
Tree at my window, window tree,
My sash is lowered when night comes on;
But let there never be curtain drawn
Between you and me.
Vague dream-head lifted out of the ground,
And thing next most diffuse to cloud,
Not all your light tongues talking aloud
Could be profound.
But tree, I have seen you taken and tossed,
And if you have seen me when I slept,
You have seen me when I was taken and swept
And all but lost.
That day she put our heads together,
Fate had her imagination about her,
Your head so much concerned with outer,
Mine with inner, weather.
| 窗外的树
黍黎释译
窗外的树，树在窗外，
夜幕降临，我关上窗户，
但从未拉上窗帘。
在你和我之间，
梦幻从地面升起，
而后飘散到云端。
不是你所有的睿语高谈，
都显得富有哲思，
但是树啊，我看见你随风摇曳。
如果你看见过我睡觉的是时候，
你会看到我辗转反侧无法入眠，
那是一切都失去了。
那天，命运把我俩的头挨一起，
命运发挥她想象力，
你关心的多是外界，
而我关心的多是内心。 |
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