An Absence

Near the end, only one thing matters.

Yes, it has something to do with the moon and the way

the moon balances so nervously

on the ridge of the barn. This is the landscape of my childhood-

my grandfather's country store, his barn, his pasture.

His chicken houses are already falling, but near the end

only the one thing matters.

It has to do with the prudence of his woods,

the way the trembling needles prove the wind.

Let's sit here by the fence

and watch for the fox that comes each night to the pasture.

Imagine how the moon cools the water in the cow pond

Yes, things happen in the cool white spaces,

those moments you turn your head-

the way the trembling branch suggests the owl,

or the print by the pond suggests the fox.

Near the end, though, only one thing matters,

and nothing, not even the fox, moves as quietly.

缺席

到最后，只有一件事至关重要。

是的，它与月亮有关，

也与月亮在谷仓的屋脊如此紧张地

平衡有关。这就是我童年的风景——

我祖父的乡间小店、他的谷仓、他的牧场。

他的鸡舍已经坍塌，然而，到了最后

只有这一件事至关重要。

这与他的树林的谨慎有关，

用那些颤抖的针叶证实了风的存在。

让我们坐这儿靠近篱笆，

守候那只夜夜到牧场来的狐狸。

想象月光怎样冷却奶牛池塘的水，

是的，事情都发生在那清凉的白色空间里，

那些你扭头的瞬间——

颤抖的树枝暗示了那只猫头鹰的存在，

或池塘边的痕迹暗示了那只狐狸。

尽管如此，到最后，只有一件事至关重要。

而没有什么，甚至狐狸，能像那样悄无声息地行动。

Kelly Sleeping

Sometimes when she sleeps, her face against the pillow (or sheet) 

almost achieves an otherworldly peace.

Sometimes when the traffic and bother of the day dissolve 

and her deeper self eases out, when sunlight edges 

through curtains and drapes the bed, I know she's in another place, 

a purer place, which perhaps doesn't include me, 

though certainly includes love, which may include the possibility of me.

Sometimes then her face against the sheet (or pillow) 

achieves (almost) an otherworldly calm (do I dare say that?) 

and glows (almost) as it glowed years ago 

just after our daughter's head slipped through the birth canal.

I remember that wet sticky swirl of hair 

turning slightly so the slick body might follow more easily, 

and how the midwife or nurse or doctor (or someone) 

laid a firm open hand under that head 

and guided our child into the world.

When that hand laid our daughter on her mother's breast, 

such a sigh followed, a long 

exhausted breath, and (stunned) I saw in my wife's face 

an ecstasy I knew I'd never (quite) see again.

凯莉睡着了 

有时当她入睡，她的脸贴着枕头（或床单）

几乎获得了一种来世的平安。

有时当一天的驱驰和烦扰解除，

她更深的自我松开，当阳光穿

透窗帘洒在床上，我知道她是在别处，

一个更为纯净的世界，那里也许没有我，

但肯定有爱，那爱或许也包括着我的可能性。

有时她的脸就紧贴着床单（或枕头）

获得（几乎）了来世的宁静（我敢这样说吗？）

并且（几乎）发着光仿佛多年以前

就在我们女儿的头滑出产道之后。

我记得那湿漉漉黏糊糊的一缕发卷

微微转动，使光滑的身体可以更容易地跟随，

还有助产士或护士或医生（或其他人）

怎样将一只结实的、打开的手放在那脑袋下

引导我们的孩子进入这个世界。

当那只手将我们的女儿放在她母亲的胸前时，

随之而来的便是那样一声叹息，一次长长的

精疲力尽的呼吸，我（震惊地）从妻子的脸上看到了

一种我知道我永不会再（完全）看到的狂喜*。

Little Night Owl

for Rachel

For hours I’d lug her on my shoulder,

up and down the sidewalk in front of that crumbling pre-war two-story

where we lived under the tap shoes

of a struggling hoofer. Up and down that sidewalk, stumbling

over cracks, singing those flies off the buttermilk, that bear

over the mountain,

and often saw the sun peep up over the rooftops of the renovated cottages

on Ridgeway. The child just wasn’t a sleeper.

This song, that song, this shoulder, that shoulder,

and the girl wouldn’t nod. Nothing to do –

just night after night, up and down the sidewalk, staggering

in a trance of exhaustion, bouncing

that swaddled grumbler, night after night of the moon

climbing through stars

while one by one the houses closed their weepy lids

and the street lamps flung our shadows

in front of us, then behind us, then in front of us again,

as I paced the whole block I don’t know

how many times until the worn-out moon started to fade

like a marshmallow in a cup of hot chocolate

and I’m dodging a car groaning out of a driveway,

a flying newspaper, the rolling

stench of a garbage truck. Then it hits me

the kid’s not stirring, not grumbling, but purring now

on my shoulder, far-off beyond a border

only the dream can cross,

so I’d wheel toward home,

and suddenly in the dirty half-light flooding the neighborhood,

the block wouldn’t look half so ratty.

And somewhere behind us a radio would blare

a happy song, and on the curb across the street,

the neighborhood grouch in his bathrobe would nod

and wave his morning news. Even those eggbeaters rattling

into rush hour would almost seem benevolent.

So I’d slow a little, watchful of the cracked sidewalk,

the blind drives, dragging out the moment

as the sun threw an aura over chimneys

and buckled rooftops, banked its fireworks

off upstairs windows, and I’d slow a little more, hugging

the blanket close, terrified of this new joy

on my shoulder,

delighted that the neighborhood, like me, was waking up.

小夜猫子

给拉结

一连数小时，我把她扛在肩上，

沿着那栋摇摇欲坠的战前两层楼房前的人行道来回走动，

我们住在那儿那双踢踏舞鞋下面

一个刻苦的职业舞蹈家。我在人行道上来来回回，跌跌撞撞

跨过裂缝，哼唱着飞离酪乳的苍蝇、

翻过高山的熊熊，*

经常看到太阳在里奇韦那栋翻修过的农舍的屋顶后窥视。

但这孩子就是不睡。

这首歌，那首歌。这边肩头，那边肩头。

但这姑娘还是不打盹。无计可施——

只能一晚又一晚，在人行道上走来走去，摇摇晃晃

在精疲力尽的恍惚中，上下颠动

那个襁褓里嘟嘟囔囔者，一夜又一夜的

月亮在繁星间攀爬，

当一座接一座房子合上欲泣的眼睑，

街灯投射出我们的影子

一会儿在前，一会儿在后，然后又在前，

我在整个街区走来走去我不知

多少趟，直到疲惫的月亮开始褪色，

像一杯热巧克力中的棉花糖，

我躲闪一辆从车道上呼啸而出的汽车、

一张飞舞的报纸、滚滚而来的

垃圾车的恶臭。然后我突然意识到，

这孩子不在扭动，不在嘟囔，而在打着呼噜

在我的肩上，远远地越过了一个边界

只有梦才能穿越，

于是我赶紧转向家的方向，

突然间在弥漫于整个街区的昏暗光线之中，

这片街区看上去不再那么破败不堪了。

在我们身后某处，一台收音机会高声播放

欢快的歌曲，街对面的马路牙子上，

穿着浴袍的街区牢骚精会点点头

挥舞他的早报。就连那些搅拌器咔哒咔哒

进入高峰时段，也会差不多像是仁慈。

所以我会放慢一点，警惕着龟裂的人行道、

瞎眼的驾驶，拖延着这一刻，

当太阳投去一个光环在烟囱上

和变形的屋顶上，楼上的窗户

反弹出它的烟花，我会更慢一点，紧紧抱住

这毛毯，惶恐于这个新的喜乐

在我的肩头，

很高兴这街区，像我一样，正在醒来。

【译注】

*“苍蝇”“熊熊”云云，都是广为流行的英语儿歌。

After the Stroke

By the time he’d hit eighty, he was something out of Ovid，

his long beak thin and hooked,

the fingers of one hand curled and stiff.

Still, he never flew. Only sat in his lawn chair by the highway,

waving a bum wing at passing cars. 

I was a timid kid, easily spooked. And it seemed like touchy gods

were everywhere—in the horns

and roar of diesels, in thunder, wind, tree limbs thrashing

the windows at night.

I was ashamed to be afraid of my grandfather.

But the hair on his ears!

The cackle in his throat!

Then on his birthday, my mother coaxed me into the yard.

I carried the cake with the one tiny candle

and sat it on a towel in the shade.

I tried not to tremble,

but it felt like gods were everywhere—in the grimy clouds

smothering the pine tops, the chainsaw

in Cantrell’s woods—everywhere, everywhere,

and from the look of the man

in the lawn chair, he’d pissed one off.

中风后

到80岁的时候，他有点像奥维德，

他的长长的鹰钩鼻又细又钩，

一只手的手指弯曲僵硬。

但他从未飞过。只是坐在马路边他的草坪椅里，

向过往的汽车挥舞着一只蹩脚的翅膀。

我是个胆怯的孩子，容易被吓到。看起来易怒的神祇

到处都是——在柴油车的

喇叭声和轰鸣声里，在打雷、刮风、树枝鞭打

夜晚的窗户时。

我为害怕我的祖父而感到羞愧。

但是他耳朵上的毛！

他喉咙里的咯咯声！

在他生日那天，妈妈哄我进了花园。

我端着那个插着一根小蜡烛的蛋糕

把它放在树荫下的毛巾上。

我竭力控制住颤抖，

但感觉好像到处都是神祇——在盖住松树顶部的

脏兮兮的云团里，在坎特雷尔树林里的

链锯声中——到处都是，到处都是，

而从坐在草坪椅里的那人的表情来看，

他已经被某个人惹恼了。

Baptist Women

My mother loves to talk about her health—in eighty-six years

seven major surgeries, two fractured hips,

five ribs, one ankle, assorted broken fingers and toes.

The church ladies who visit

don’t seem to mind. They have their own maladies. 

Outside the planet heats up, though it’s not yet summer.

Squirrels thunder all afternoon on the roof.

My mother says something about the voice of God

rumbling in her hearing aid. 

She also heard it two weeks ago, a wave in the static

of the emergency room—drip, hum, drip, hum. 

A Baptist lady unwraps a casserole. 

My mother loves to talk about heart.

The church ladies who visit don’t seem to mind.

They have their own maladies, or relatives have them.

All saints suffer. It’s common knowledge.

浸信会妇女

我妈妈爱谈论她的健康——在八十六年里

七次大手术，两次髋骨骨折，

五根肋骨，一只脚踝，各种破碎的手指和脚趾。

来访的教会女士们

好像并不介意。他们各有自己的疾病。

地球外面已经热起来了，尽管现在还不是夏天。

松鼠们整个下午都在房顶上轰隆隆地奔跑。

我妈妈说起上帝的声音

轰鸣在她的助听器里。

她两周前也听到了，一阵波涛

在急诊室的静态中——嘀嘀、嗡嗡、嘀嘀、嗡嗡。

一位浸信会女士打开砂锅。

我妈妈爱谈论心。

来访的教会女士们好像并不介意。

他们各有自己的疾病，或者亲属也有。

所有圣徒都受苦。这是常识。

A CHAT WITH MY FATHER

Sometimes when my old man tries to talk, his mind runs like a small boy 
on a path through the woods. 

You know the story. There's home to get to, and it's getting late, 
only a little light still slicing through the trees. 

And the boy has walked the path so many times, 
he thinks he can do it in his sleep. But no. Some bird sounds off 

way back in the woods, and he tries to ignore it, but it harps again, 
and suddenly he's off the path, deeper and deeper 

into the trees, wading the shadows, following the strangest 
and most beautiful birdsong he's ever heard 

until he crosses a stream and catches in the corner of his eye 
a ruby as big as his fist, sure, a ruby or some rock 

just as precious, and bends to pick it up when a wild dog ... 
no, not a dog, when a wolf barks across a gully, 

and he's beating his way through brush and briar, trailing 
those barks and howls already fading 

in the distance. All the while the woods have grown dark, 
and suddenly he looks across the table, 

and you see in his eyes that he's lost. 

和父亲聊天

有时，当我的老父亲试图交谈时，他的思绪就像个小男孩奔跑

在穿过树林的小路上。

你知道这个故事。要回家了，天色已晚，

仅有少许光线透过树缝。

这个男孩走这条路已经很多次，

他认为他在睡梦中也能走回去。但是不。某种鸟儿大发响声

在树林深处，他试图忽略它，但它再次弹奏起来，而突然间

他就偏离了道路，越来越深

入树林，涉过阴影，循着他听过的

最陌生、最美丽的鸟鸣，

直到他跨过一条小溪，眼角余光捕捉到

一颗拳头般大的红宝石，没错，一颗红宝石或别的石头

同样珍贵，弯腰捡起它当一条野狗……

不，不是狗，一声狼嚎穿过溪谷，

他在灌木和荆棘中奋力穿行，尾随着

那些狂吠和嚎叫已经消失

在远处。这时所有的树林都变得昏暗了，

突然，他望向桌子对面，

你从他的眼神中看出，他迷路了。

In A U-Haul North Of Damascus

Lord, what are the sins 

I have tried to leave behind me? The bad checks, 

the workless days, the Scotch bottles thrown across the fence 

and into the woods, the cruelty of silence, 

the cruelty of lies, the jealousy, 

the indifference? 

What are these on the scale of sin 

or failure 

that they should follow me through the streets of Columbus, 

the moon-streaked fields between Benevolence 

and Cuthbert where dwarfed cotton sparkles like pearls 

on the shoulders of the road. What are these 

that they should find me half-lost, 

sick and sleepless 

behind the wheel of this U-Haul truck parked in a field 

on Georgia 45 

a few miles north of Damascus, 

some makeshift rest stop for eighteen wheelers 

where the long white arms of oaks slap across trailers 

and headlights glare all night through a wall of pines? 

What was I thinking, Lord? 

That for once I'd be in the driver's seat, a firm grip 

on direction? 

So the jon boat muscled up the ramp, 

the Johnson outboard, the bent frame of the wrecked Harley 

chained for so long to the back fence, 

the scarred desk, the bookcases and books, 

the mattress and box springs, 

a broken turntable, a Pioneer amp, a pair 

of three-way speakers, everything mine 

I intended to keep. Everything else abandon. 

But on the road from one state 

to another, what is left behind nags back through the distance, 

a last word rising to a scream, a salad bowl 

shattering against a kitchen cabinet, china barbs 

spiking my heel, blood trailed across the cream linoleum 

like the bedsheet that morning long ago 

just before I watched the future miscarried. 

Jesus, could the irony be 

that suffering forms a stronger bond than love? 

Now the sun 

streaks the windshield with yellow and orange, heavy beads 

of light drawing highways in the dew-cover. 

I roll down the window and breathe the pine-air, 

the after-scent of rain, and the far-off smell

of asphalt and diesel fumes. 

But mostly pine and rain 

as though the world really could be clean again. 

Somewhere behind me,
miles behind me on a two-lane that streaks across

west Georgia, light is falling 

through the windows of my half-empty house. 

Lord, why am I thinking about this? And why should I care 

so long after everything has fallen 

to pain that the woman sleeping there

should be sleeping alone? 

Could I be just another sinner who needs to be blinded 

before he can see? Lord, is it possible to fall 

toward grace? Could I be moved 

to believe in new beginnings? Could I be moved?

在大马士革北，一辆优豪尔搬家车里

主啊，那些罪是什么

我试图抛在身后？空头支票，

无所事事的日子，苏格兰酒瓶越过栅栏

扔进树林，残酷的沉默，

残酷的谎言，嫉妒，

冷漠？

这些罪或失败

达到什么规模

以致它们竟然跟着我穿过哥伦布的街道，

月光斑驳的田野在伯纳沃伦斯

和卡斯伯特之间，矮小的棉花闪光如珍珠

在道路两侧。这些是什么，

它们竟找到我，中途迷路，

患着病，不眠不休地

在这辆停在野地的优豪尔卡车的方向盘后，

在乔治亚45号公路，

大马士革以北几英里，

十八轮车的临时休息站，

在那里，橡树长长的白色手臂拍打着拖车，

车头灯终夜怒视一堵松树墙？

我在想什么呢，主？

曾经一度，我坐在驾驶座上，牢牢地把握

方向？

于是那只平底船猛力冲上了波顶，

那约翰逊舷外发动机，长久拴在后栅栏上的

那损坏的哈雷变形的框架，

伤痕累累的书桌，书柜和书，

褥子和弹簧床垫，

一个破转盘，一个先锋牌功放，一对

三路扬声器，就是我

想要保留的一切。其他所有都已抛弃。

但在从一个州到另一个州的路上，

留在背后的东西，唠叨着向后穿过那段距离，

最后一个词变成了一声尖叫，一只沙拉碗

破碎在橱柜上，瓷器的碎尖

刺进我的脚跟，鲜血缓慢流过奶油色地毡

就像床单很久以前的那个早晨

在我看见未来流产之前。

耶稣，难道这其中的讽刺意味就在于

苦难反而能比爱更能塑造牢固的纽带？

此刻，太阳

在挡风玻璃上闪着黄色和橙色的光斑，众多的光珠

描绘着露水覆盖的公路。

我摇下车窗，呼吸着松树的气味，

雨后的气味，以及遥远的

柏油和柴油烟雾的气味。

但主要是松和雨，

好像这个世界真的可以再次变得干净。

在我身后的某个地方，

在我身后几英里远的一条两车道上，划过

西乔治亚，光

正穿过我那半空的房屋的窗户。

主，为什么我想着这个呢？为什么我要在乎

这么久之后，一切都堕入

痛苦之后，睡在那儿的那个女人竟是独眠？

我会不会正是另一个罪人，他必须被弄瞎

才能看见？主啊，跌入恩典

是可能的吗？我能被搬迁到

相信去吗在全新的开端里？我能被搬迁吗？

Under The Vulture-Tree

We have all seen them circling pastures, 

have looked up from the mouth of a barn, a pine clearing, 

the fences of our own backyards, and have stood 

amazed by the one slow wing beat, the endless dihedral drift. 

But I had never seen so many so close, hundreds, 

every limb of the dead oak feathered black, 

and I cut the engine, let the river grab the jon boat 

and pull it toward the tree. 

The black leaves shined, the pink fruit blossomed 

red, ugly as a human heart. 

Then, as I passed under their dream, I saw for the first time 

its soft countenance, the raw fleshy jowls 

wrinkled and generous, like the faces of the very old 

who have grown to empathize with everything. 

And I drifted away from them, slow, on the pull of the river, 

reluctant, looking back at their roost, 

calling them what I'd never called them, what they are, 

those dwarfed transfiguring angels, 

who flock to the side of the poisoned fox, the mud turtle 

crushed on the shoulder of the road, 

who pray over the leaf-graves of the anonymous lost, 

with mercy enough to consume us all and give us wings.

秃鹰树下

我们都看见过它们在牧场上盘旋，

抬头仰望，从谷仓口、松林空地，

从自家后院的篱笆边，久久地

惊叹于一次缓慢的扇翅，无尽的二面角漂移。

但我从未这么近地看见这么多，成百上千，

这枯死橡树的每一根枝子都长着黑色的羽毛，

我关掉引擎，任凭河水抓住平底船，

把它拉向那棵树。

那些黑色的叶片闪闪发光，粉果绽出

血红，丑陋得就像一颗人类的心脏。

当我从他们的梦境下经过，我第一次看到了

它柔和的面容，天生多肉的下巴

多皱而又宽厚，像那种十分苍老的脸

成熟到能够同情一切。

我漂离了它们，慢慢地，在河水的拉动下，

勉力地，回头看着它们的栖息处，

用我从未使用过的称呼呼唤它们，它们是什么，

那些矮小的变形天使，

成群地聚集在被毒死的狐狸、

被压碎在路边的泥龟旁边，

它们在那些无名遇难者的落叶坟墓前祈祷，

以足够充满我们所有人的怜悯，给我们插上翅膀。

The Undertaker

Where could he go after the showroom emptied at Holcomb Chevrolet

and the doors on the service garage
                               

clanged down for good?

Only the street of small shops and drugstores, only a gas station

or a grocery-or that one sprawling house

at the head of Main, where he’d learn to dress and powder the dead.

No one wanted this. Not my mother, not me.

We knew they’d follow him home, clinging like dust to his shadow.

They smelled like formaldehyde,
                                

sardines, stale tobacco.

They left a film my mother couldn’t sweep away.

It stuck to our shoes. Made us edgy, tearful.

Sharp words flew, the biscuits burned, the laundry scorched.

But slowly, as we grew used to the dread, the intensity

of the shadows flooding the house,

everything else intensified also-
                       

his brutal hugs in the evening,

my mother’s silence crackling into laughter,

the vivid sizzle of bacon on the stove, the purple violets

in our jelly glasses. It wasn’t just spring, I know that,

or the freshly scrubbed windows, or the sunlight turning orange

through the rusted screens –
                                        

it was those guests

we couldn’t coax home, forever darkening some corner,

sheepish, nervous,
                      

desperate to be offered a chair.

入殓师

他能去哪儿呢，在霍尔科姆雪佛兰的展厅被清空

汽车维修车间的门

哐当一声永久关闭之后？

只有小商店和药妆店的街区，只有一座加油站

或一间食品杂货店——或那座杂乱无章的房子

在美茵路头，在那儿他可以学习给死人穿衣和扑粉。

没有人想要这个。我妈妈不想，我也不想。

我们知道他们会跟着他回家，像灰尘粘着他的影子。

他们闻起来像甲醛，

沙丁鱼，变质的烟草。

他们留下了我母亲无法清除的底片。

它粘在我们的鞋子上。让我们烦躁，流泪。

尖刻的言辞飞来飞去，饼干烤糊了，衣服熨焦了。

但慢慢地，随着我们逐渐习惯了这种恐惧，强烈的

阴影淹没了房子，

其他一切也加剧了——
                                      

晚上他那令人不适的拥抱，

妈妈的沉默爆裂成狂笑，

培根活泼的咝咝声在火炉上，紫色堇

在我们的果冻杯里。这不仅仅是春天，我知道，

或新擦洗的窗户，或阳光变成橙色

透过生锈的纱门——
                                   

是我们无法哄劝回家的

那些客人，永远黑在某个角落，

窘迫、紧张，
            

迫切渴望有人提供一把椅子。

A NIGHT, NEAR BERKELEY SPRINGS

"The light of the future eternal" sometimes breaks on a life,

as Henry Kyd Douglas believed it touched

Stonewall Jackson when he broke his order mid-sentence-

"No, no, let us cross over the river and rest

in the shade of the trees."

And it doesn't always flare at the end, nor only strike

great generals-as Douglas himself learned

one night in Virginia

when he bedded his troops in an open field behind

the cavalry pickets. It was cloudy,

but not cold for winter. "In the middle of the night

I felt moisture on my face, and covering myself

from head to foot in a blanket

I slept soundly." And imagine a suffocating

absence of dreams, of waking

"oppressed with heat," the unnatural weight of the dark

burying you in a second of fear.

But beyond it, the awe, the simple joy

of rising up and shaking off that half-foot of snow,

of seeing outstretched from your feet the whole white field

mounded with graves,

and one by one in the early light

the glazed mounds quivering awake, each hopeless soldier

sitting up, brushing off

a fine dust, astonished to be rising from a cloud.

 一个夜晚，在伯克利温泉*附近

"未来永恒之光"有时会照亮一个生命，

正如亨利·基德·道格拉斯*相信，它触摸了

斯通沃·杰克逊*，当他中途打破他的命令时——

“不，不，让我们过河，

在树荫下休息。”

而它并不总是在终点闪耀，也不只是照在

伟大的将军们身上——正如道格拉斯本人所学到的那样

在弗吉尼亚的一个晚上，

当他安排他的部队在骑兵纠察队后面

一片开阔的田野上休息时。天气多云，

但对冬天来说还不算冷。“半夜时

我感觉脸上湿透了，就把自己

从头到脚裹进毯子里，

睡得很香。”想象一种窒息

没有梦，没有醒，

“被热气压迫”，黑暗那怪异的重量

埋葬你在瞬间的恐惧里。

但除此之外，那敬畏，那单纯的喜乐——

站起身抖掉半英尺厚的积雪，

看见从你脚边伸展开去的整个白色田野

堆满了坟墓，

一个接一个，在清晨的光中，

光滑的坟丘抖动着醒来，每个绝望的士兵

坐起身，掸掉

细细的尘土，惊讶于自己正驾云升起。*

【译注】

*1.伯克利温泉，位于西弗吉尼亚，那里有南北战争的古战场。

*2.Henry Kyd Douglas亨利·基德·道格拉斯（1838-1903）是美国内战期间的南方邦联参谋。他参加了北弗吉尼亚陆军第二军团的大部分战斗，其战时回忆录《我与斯通沃一起骑行》1940年首次出版。

*3.Stonewall Jackson斯通沃·杰克逊，原名托马斯·乔纳森·杰克逊(1824年-1863年)，美国南北战争期间担任南部邦联将军(1861-1863年)，成为继罗伯特·E·李之后最著名的南部邦联指挥官之一。

*4.“尘土”表面指士兵身上的积雪，同时也与前面“坟丘”的比喻呼应。“云”，让人联想起使徒行传第一章第九节9 “他就被取上升，有一朵云彩把他接去…”因此，才有“那敬畏，那单纯的喜乐”之语。

✍︎【译者简介】

张洁，女，出生于湖北襄阳，现居新西兰。鲁迅文学院第31届中青年作家高级研修班学员。写诗，译诗，品诗。出版有诗集《十二女子诗坊》（合集）、《草上的月亮》、《60首诗·张洁卷》等。曾担任网站诗歌编辑、民刊诗歌编辑，参与编著诗选本若干部。译有英国诗人C•S•路易斯、G•K•切斯特顿、乔治·麦克唐纳，以及美国诗人泰德·库瑟、保罗·马里亚尼、大卫·博顿斯、约翰·班尼斯特·塔布等多位诗人的优秀诗作。