Black Oaks by Mary Oliver

好吧，没有人能写一首交响曲，或一本字典，
即使一封给老朋友的信，充满了
回忆和慰籍。
没有人能完成一种独一无二的声音纵然
蓝松鸦终日在树枝间吹毛求疵地鸣叫，
没有风的推动。
而过会儿讲出真相，我憔悴地渴望
她们覆着苔藓，发出喉音的厚重身体
你不能让我避开树林，避开她们肩膀的吨位，
和她们闪亮的绿羽毛。
今天是像任何其他日子的一天：二十四小时，
一会儿阳光，一会儿雨。
听听，说着野心，烦躁不安地一一步一步
移动着她身体的重量--为什么你不继续走呢？
因为我在那儿，在长满苔藓的阴影中，在林下。
说实话，我不想放开游手好闲的手腕，
我不想为钱出卖我的人生，
我甚至不想从雨中走出来。
Okay, not one can write a symphony, or a dictionary,
or even a letter to an old friend, full of remembrance
and comfort.
Not one can manage a single sound though the blue jays
carp and whistle all day in the branches, without
the push of the wind.
But to tell the truth after a while I'm pale with longing
for their thick bodies ruckled with lichen
and you can't keep me from the woods, from the tonnage
of their shoulders, and their shining green hair.
Today is a day like any other: twenty-four hours, a
little sunshine, a little rain.
Listen, says ambition, nervously shifting her weight from
one boot to another -- why don't you get going?
For there I am, in the mossy shadows, under the trees.
And to tell the truth I don't want to let go of the wrists
of idleness, I don't want to sell my life for money,
I don't even want to come in out of the rain.