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Mowing
by Robert Frost

There was never a sound beside the wood but one,
And that was my long scythe whispering to the ground.
What was it it whispered? I knew not well myself;
Perhaps it was something about the heat of the sun,
Something, perhaps, about the lack of sound—
And that was why it whispered and did not speak.
It was no dream of the gift of idle hours,
Or easy gold at the hand of fay or elf:
Anything more than the truth would have seemed too weak
To the earnest love that laid the swale in rows,
Not without feeble-pointed spikes of flowers
(Pale orchises), and scared a bright green snake.
The fact is the sweetest dream that labor knows.
My long scythe whispered and left the hay to make.

割草
作者：罗伯特·弗罗斯特
译者：江枫
朗诵：喬中
BGM："the Dust of Time"
by Eleni Karaindrou

林边一片寂静，只有一个声音，
那是我的长柄镰刀对地面低语。
它说些什么，我并不十分清楚
也许，是在诉说着太阳的炎热，
也许是，关于这世界毫无声息——
所以它悄声低语，不大声说话。
这不是懒散游惰便有收获的梦，
不是神仙手中轻易可得的黄金：
凡事超过真实便显得虚弱无力，
是真挚的爱使洼地牧草割成行列，
却也并非没有伤及那白色兰花
鲜嫩的花穗、惊吓晶亮的青蛇。
事实，是劳动所知最美的美梦，
我的长镰低语，留下牧草晾晒。
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修改:joejunker FROM 210.36.127.*
FROM 210.36.127.*