来鉴定一下：《三月末》

The End Of March

For John Malcolm Brinnin and Bill Read: Duxbury

与伊丽莎白·毕肖普同行——之十八：三月末

《三月末》
                                        ——【译】丁丽英

It was cold and windy, scarcely the day
to take a walk on that long beach
Everything was withdrawn as far as possible,
indrawn: the tide far out, the ocean shrunken,
seabirds in ones or twos.
The rackety, icy, offshore wind
numbed our faces on one side;
disrupted the formation
of a lone flight of Canada geese;
and blew back the low, inaudible rollers
in upright, steely mist.

那是很少有人到海滩作长途散步的
                        寒冷而有风的日子。
                        每件事物都尽可能远地撤离，
                        吸收：潮水退去，大海缩小，
                        海鸟零星。
                        那喧闹、冰冷、离岸的风
                        从一边数出我们的面孔；
                        打破加拿大鹅
                        孤独飞行的队伍；
                        并吹回在垂直、坚硬的雾中
                        低沉、无声的巨浪。

The sky was darker than the water
--it was the color of mutton-fat jade.
Along the wet sand, in rubber boots, we followed
a track of big dog-prints (so big
they were more like lion-prints). Then we came on
lengths and lengths, endless, of wet white string,
looping up to the tide-line, down to the water,
over and over. Finally, they did end:
a thick white snarl, man-size, awash,
rising on every wave, a sodden ghost,
falling back, sodden, giving up the ghost...
A kite string?--But no kite.

天空比海水更深
                        ——它是一种羊脂球的颜色。
                        我们穿着橡胶鞋，沿着潮湿沙滩，跟随
                        一串狗的大足印（它们大得
                        更像狮子的脚印）。后来我们遇见
                        潮湿的白线，长而又长，永无止境
                        绕上浪尖，不断重复，
                        下至下面。终于，它们停止：
                        一个漂浮的、巨大的白色厚结，
                        在每个波纹上升起，一个湿透的幽灵，
                        落回，呆滞，放弃了鬼魂……
                        是一条风筝线？——但没有风筝。

I wanted to get as far as my proto-dream-house,
my crypto-dream-house, that crooked box
set up on pilings, shingled green,
a sort of artichoke of a house, but greener
(boiled with bicarbonate of soda?),
protected from spring tides by a palisade
of--are they railroad ties?
(Many things about this place are dubious.)
I'd like to retire there and do nothing,
or nothing much, forever, in two bare rooms:
look through binoculars, read boring books,
old, long, long books, and write down useless notes,
talk to myself, and, foggy days,
watch the droplets slipping, heavy with light.
At night, a grog a l'américaine.
I'd blaze it with a kitchen match
and lovely diaphanous blue flame
would waver, doubled in the window.
There must be a stove; there is a chimney,
askew, but braced with wires,
and electricity, possibly
--at least, at the back another wire
limply leashes the whole affair
to something off behind the dunes.
A light to read by--perfect! But--impossible.
And that day the wind was much too cold
even to get that far,
and of course the house was boarded up.

我想到达我的原梦屋那么远的地方，
                        我的原梦屋，那打夯的
                        歪斜的盒子，鹅卵石绿，
                        像一种朝鲜蓟的屋子，但还要绿
                        （拿碳酸盐的苏打煮过？），
                        用栅栏防御春天的潮水
                        ——它们是铁轨的领结？
                        （关于这地方的许多事都是可疑的。）
                        我愿意在这儿休息什么事也不做，
                        或者什么也没有，永远，在两间空房间里：
                        双目并视，阅读讨厌的书，
                        陈旧、冗长的大部头书籍，还写下无用的笔记，
                        和自己说话，而且，在浓雾的日子里，
                        观看雨滴滑落，沉重的光线。
                        夜晚，从甜酒到那美式龙虾*。
                        我将它点燃用一根厨房火柴
                        和玻璃窗上变成双份的、
                        摇摆而透明的可爱的蓝火焰。
                        那儿必定是个炉子；那儿是烟囱，
                        歪斜着，不过有可能戴上铁丝
                        和电线的手镯
                        ——至少，在背后另有铁丝
                        轻轻系住整个物体
                        不让什么东西脱落到沙丘后。
                        一种适宜阅读的光线——完美！但——不可能。
                        而且那天风太冷
                        不能去这么远，
                        当然房子也是被木板钉住了。

On the way back our faces froze on the other side.
The sun came out for just a minute.
For just a minute, set in their bezels of sand,
the drab, damp, scattered stones
were multi-colored,
and all those high enough threw out long shadows,
individual shadows, then pulled them in again.
They could have been teasing the lion sun,
except that now he was behind them
--a sun who'd walked the beach the last low tide,
making those big, majestic paw-prints,
who perhaps had batted a kite out of the sky to play with.

Elizabeth Bishop

回来的路上我们的脸一侧被冻僵。
                        太阳只出来片刻。
                        只片刻，把它们的凸棱嵌进沙子，
                        那分散、潮湿、褐色的石头
                        是五颜六色的，
                        这些石头高得足以投下长长的阴影，
                        单独的阴影，后又把它们收紧。
                        它们早已作弄过狮子太阳了，
                        要不是他现在正跟在后面
                        ——一个会在退潮的沙滩上漫步的太阳，
                        他留下了这些高贵、巨大的爪印，
                        他可能把一只风筝打到天外去闹着玩。