
窗外小松鼠爬上了樹
枯葉唏唏嗦嗦
這郁悶的天色不知何時散去
德布西和拉威爾的曖昧挑逗
讓我慵懶。
青青子衿,悠悠我心。
縱我不往,子寧不嗣音?
青青子佩,悠悠我思。
縱我不往,子寧不來?
「致 於愛與永恆的回憶中
占士.費華特
生於1866年2月4日
死於1915年9月30日
以及他的妻子
安妮.費華特
生於1864年10月6日
死於1949年7月1日 」
One art by Elizabeth Bishop
The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.
Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.
I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.
---Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.