1) 我的技艺或沉郁的艺术
在平静的夜里施展，
当只有月亮在发怒
而恋人们躺在床上
抱着他们所有的悲苦，
我在吟唱的灯光下潜心于
我的技艺或沉郁的艺术，
不是为了抱负或面包，
也不是为了在象牙舞台上
卖弄风骚，昂首阔步，
是为了他们最隐秘的心
这寻常的薪金。
除了恼怒的月亮，
我不会为那得意的人
在这些风起浪涌的纸张上抒写，
也不为有夜莺和圣歌
作伴的高耸的死人，
而只为恋人们，他们的臂膀
拥抱岁月的悲苦，
既不给以赞美或薪金，
也不会留意我的技艺或艺术。
In My Craft or Sullen Art
In my craft or sullen art
Exercised in the still night
When only the moon rages
And the lovers lie abed
With all their griefs in their arms,
I labour by singing light
Not for ambition or bread
Or the strut and trade of charms
On the ivory stages
But for the common wages
Of their most secret heart.
Not for the proud man apart
From the raging moon I write
On these spindrift pages
Nor for the towering dead
With their nightingales and psalms
But for the lovers, their arms
Round the griefs of the ages,
Who pay no praise or wages
Nor heed my craft or art.
2) 二十四年
二十四年令泪水想起我的眼睛。
（埋葬死者以免她们在阵痛中步向坟地。）
我曾蹲在天然门廊的腹沟里，
像个裁缝，借食肉太阳的光，
缝制一件旅行用的寿衣。
盛装就死，肉欲之徜徉已开始，
我的红色血管里满是金钱，
朝着初级市镇最后的方向
我永久地前进。
Twenty-Four Years
Twenty-four years remind the tears of my eyes.
(Bury the dead for fear that they walk to the grave ln labour.)
In the groin of the natural doorway I crouched like a tailor
Sewing a shroud for a journey
By the light of the meat-eating sun.
Dressed to die, the sensual strut begun,
With my red veins full of money,
In the final direction of the elementary town
I advance for as long as forever is.
3) 塔楼中的耳朵听见
塔楼中的耳朵听见
手在门上轰鸣
山墙里的眼睛看见
弄门锁的手指
我该开门还是
孤零零地等到我在这栋
白色房子里死去的那天
而不让陌生的眼睛发现？
手啊，你拿着的是毒药还是葡萄？
在这被肌肉之海
和骨头海岸绑住
的岛屿那一边，
土地位于声音之外
山丘位于心智之外
没有鸟或飞行的鱼
会打扰这岛屿的安宁。
这岛屿中的耳朵听见
风像火一样吹过
这岛屿中的眼睛看见
船只停泊在海湾
我该带着头发里的风
奔向那些船
还是等到我死去的那天
而不去迎接任何水手？
船啊，你装载的是毒药还是葡萄？
手在门上轰鸣
船只停泊在海湾
雨水敲打沙地和石板，
我该不该让那陌生人进来，
我该不该去迎接那水手，
或是等到我死去的那天？
陌生人的手和那些船的货舱，
你们带来的是毒药还是葡萄？
Ears In The Turrets Hear
Ears in the turrets hear
Hands grumble on the door,
Eyes in the gables see
The fingers at the locks.
Shall I unbolt or stay
Alone till the day I die
Unseen by stranger-eyes
In this white house?
Hands, hold you poison or grapes?
Beyond this island bound
By a thin sea of flesh
And a bone coast,
The land lies out of sound
And the hills out of mind.
No birds or flying fish
Disturbs this island's rest.
Ears in this island hear
The wind pass like a fire,
Eyes in this island see
Ships anchor off the bay.
Shall I run to the ships
With the wind in my hair,
Or stay till the day I die
And welcome no sailor?
Ships, hold you poison or grapes?
Hands grumble on the door,
Ships anchor off the bay,
Rain beats the sand and slates.
Shall I let in the stranger,
Shall I welcome the sailor,
Or stay till the day I die?
Hands of the stranger and holds of the ships,
Hold you poison or grapes?
