艾米·洛威爾經(jīng)典詩歌欣賞：Spring Day

　　The day is fresh-washed and fair, and there is

　　a smell of tulips and narcissus

　　in the air.

　　The sunshine pours in at the bath-room window and

　　bores through the water

　　in the bath-tub in lathes and planes of greenish-white. It

　　cleaves the water

　　into flaws like a jewel, and cracks it to bright light.

　　Little spots of sunshine lie on the surface of

　　the water and dance, dance,

　　and their reflections wobble deliciously over the ceiling; a stir

　　of my finger

　　sets them whirring, reeling. I move a foot, and the planes

　　of light

　　in the water jar. I lie back and laugh, and let the green-white

　　water,

　　the sun-flawed beryl water, flow over me. The day is

　　almost

　　too bright to bear, the green water covers me from the too bright

　　day.

　　I will lie here awhile and play with the water and the sun spots.

　　The sky is blue and high. A crow flaps

　　by the window, and there is

　　a whiff of tulips and narcissus in the air.

　　Breakfast Table

　　In the fresh-washed sunlight, the breakfast table

　　is decked and white.

　　It offers itself in flat surrender, tendering tastes, and smells,

　　and colours, and metals, and grains, and the white cloth falls over

　　its side,

　　draped and wide. Wheels of white glitter in the silver

　　coffee-pot,

　　hot and spinning like catherine-wheels, they whirl, and twirl --

　　and my eyes

　　begin to smart, the little white, dazzling wheels prick them like

　　darts.

　　Placid and peaceful, the rolls of bread spread themselves in the

　　sun to bask.

　　A stack of butter-pats, pyramidal, shout orange through the white,

　　scream,

　　flutter, call: "Yellow! Yellow! Yellow!" Coffee

　　steam rises in a stream,

　　clouds the silver tea-service with mist, and twists up into the

　　sunlight,

　　revolved, involuted, suspiring higher and higher, fluting in a thin

　　spiral

　　up the high blue sky. A crow flies by and croaks at the

　　coffee steam.

　　The day is new and fair with good smells in the air.

　　Walk

　　Over the street the white clouds meet, and sheer

　　away without touching.

　　On the sidewalks, boys are playing marbles. Glass

　　marbles,

　　with amber and blue hearts, roll together and part with a sweet

　　clashing noise. The boys strike them with black and red

　　striped agates.

　　The glass marbles spit crimson when they are hit, and slip into

　　the gutters

　　under rushing brown water. I smell tulips and narcissus

　　in the air,

　　but there are no flowers anywhere, only white dust whipping up the

　　street,

　　and a girl with a gay Spring hat and blowing skirts. The

　　dust and the wind

　　flirt at her ankles and her neat, high-heeled patent leather shoes. Tap,

　　tap,

　　the little heels pat the pavement, and the wind rustles among the

　　flowers

　　on her hat.

　　A water-cart crawls slowly on the other side of

　　the way. It is green and gay

　　with new paint, and rumbles contentedly, sprinkling clear water

　　over

　　the white dust. Clear zigzagging water, which smells

　　of tulips and narcissus.

　　The thickening branches make a pink `grisaille'

　　against the blue sky.

　　Whoop! The clouds go dashing at each

　　other and sheer away just in time.

　　Whoop! And a man's hat careers down the street in front

　　of the white dust,

　　leaps into the branches of a tree, veers away and trundles ahead

　　of the wind,

　　jarring the sunlight into spokes of rose-colour and green.

　　A motor-car cuts a swathe through the bright air,

　　sharp-beaked, irresistible,

　　shouting to the wind to make way. A glare of dust and

　　sunshine

　　tosses together behind it, and settles down. The sky

　　is quiet and high,

　　and the morning is fair with fresh-washed air.

　　Midday and Afternoon

　　Swirl of crowded streets. Shock and

　　recoil of traffic. The stock-still

　　brick facade of an old church, against which the waves of people

　　lurch and withdraw. Flare of sunshine down side-streets. Eddies

　　of light

　　in the windows of chemists' shops, with their blue, gold, purple

　　jars,

　　darting colours far into the crowd. Loud bangs and tremors,

　　murmurings out of high windows, whirring of machine belts,

　　blurring of horses and motors. A quick spin and shudder

　　of brakes

　　on an electric car, and the jar of a church-bell knocking against

　　the metal blue of the sky. I am a piece of the town,

　　a bit of blown dust,

　　thrust along with the crowd. Proud to feel the pavement

　　under me,

　　reeling with feet. Feet tripping, skipping, lagging,

　　dragging,

　　plodding doggedly, or springing up and advancing on firm elastic

　　insteps.

　　A boy is selling papers, I smell them clean and new from the press.

　　They are fresh like the air, and pungent as tulips and narcissus.

　　The blue sky pales to lemon, and great tongues

　　of gold blind the shop-windows,

　　putting out their contents in a flood of flame.

　　Night and Sleep

　　The day takes her ease in slippered yellow. Electric

　　signs gleam out

　　along the shop fronts, following each other. They grow,

　　and grow,

　　and blow into patterns of fire-flowers as the sky fades. Trades

　　scream

　　in spots of light at the unruffled night. Twinkle, jab,

　　snap, that means

　　a new play; and over the way: plop, drop, quiver, is

　　the sidelong

　　sliver of a watchmaker's sign with its length on another street.

　　A gigantic mug of beer effervesces to the atmosphere over a tall

　　building,

　　but the sky is high and has her own stars, why should she heed ours?

　　I leave the city with speed. Wheels

　　whirl to take me back to my trees

　　and my quietness. The breeze which blows with me is fresh-washed

　　and clean,

　　it has come but recently from the high sky. There are

　　no flowers

　　in bloom yet, but the earth of my garden smells of tulips and narcissus.

　　My room is tranquil and friendly. Out

　　of the window I can see

　　the distant city, a band of twinkling gems, little flower-heads

　　with no stems.

　　I cannot see the beer-glass, nor the letters of the restaurants

　　and shops

　　I passed, now the signs blur and all together make the city,

　　glowing on a night of fine weather, like a garden stirring and blowing

　　for the Spring.

　　The night is fresh-washed and fair and there is

　　a whiff of flowers in the air.

　　Wrap me close, sheets of lavender. Pour

　　your blue and purple dreams

　　into my ears. The breeze whispers at the shutters and

　　mutters

　　queer tales of old days, and cobbled streets, and youths leaping

　　their horses

　　down marble stairways. Pale blue lavender, you are the

　　colour of the sky

　　when it is fresh-washed and fair . . . I smell the stars . . . they

　　are like

　　tulips and narcissus . . . I smell them in the air.