熟悉黑夜

罗伯特.弗罗斯特

我早已熟悉这黑夜。

我在雨中出去—又在雨中归来。

我已越过这城市灯光的边界。

我经过城市中最黯淡的小巷。

我路过正敲着钟的守夜人身边

垂下双眼，不愿多讲。

我停了下来，脚步声也停了

远处时断时续的哭喊声

越过屋顶，从另一条街道传过来。

请别叫我回去，或者说再见；

在远离尘嚣的高处，那儿更安静，

一樽发光的钟悬在天际

它说这时间既不错误也不正确。

但我早已熟悉这黑夜。

晨曲

菲利普.拉金

我终日工作，夜晚喝的半醉。

清晨四点醒来，我凝视着寂静的黑暗。

窗帘的边角迟早会掀起晨光。

直到那时，我才发现是什么一直呆在那：

永不停歇的死亡，离它又近了一天，

我无法思索，除了我将怎样

在何地，在何时，让自己死去。

都是无用的疑问：然而，对死亡

的恐惧和将死去的宿命

再次闪现，控制你，使你恐惧。

脑中一片空白。我不会悔恨

那些未做过的善事，未付出的爱，和挥霍掉的时光

--也不会感到悲哀，因为

仅有的一生中，经过漫长的岁月攀登

也许能翻越它最初错误的原点，也许永不可能；

但这片永恒的空虚之中，

我们迈向的那个确定的死亡

总会被遗失。不在此，

不在任何地方，

很快；没事比这更可怕，没事比这更真实。

这是恐惧的一种特殊形式

无法消除。宗教曾经尝试过，

虫蛀过的巨幅织锦回荡着天国的靡音

创造出我们从不死去的谎言，

那些华而不实的东西说，合理的存在

不会害怕一种感受不到的东西— 然而

这正是我们害怕的— 无法看见，无法听见，

无法触及、尝出或闻出，无事可想，

无物可爱或联系，

感觉迷失，无人可逃脱。

因而它只是停留在视野的边缘，

一小块模糊不清的东西，不动的严寒

它使每一次冲动都延缓成优柔寡断。

大部分事情也许不会发生：唯独它除外，

我们轻易被它束缚，不是因为他人或酒

它带来的恐惧像炉火一般肆虐。

勇气不是美德：

它意味着不去惊吓别人。勇敢

不能将任何人拉出坟墓。

面对死亡，哀诉和抵抗并无差别。

晨光渐渐变强，房间的轮廓已显现。

它清晰的如同房间里的衣柜，我们知道，

始终知道，我们不可能逃脱，

然而也不能接受。二者必须选其一。

此刻，锁着的办公室里的电话正蜷缩着

准备随时响起，整个被漠视的

错综复杂的，被出租的世界开始苏醒。

天空似陶土一般惨白，没有太阳。

工作依旧要做。

邮差如同医生，穿梭在一幢幢房屋之间。

 原文：

Acquainted with the Night
by: Robert Frost 

I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain -- and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.

I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.

I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,

But not to call me back or say good-bye;
And further still at an unearthly height,
One luminary clock against the sky

Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night.

Aubade
Philip Larkin

I work all day, and get half-drunk at night.
Waking at four to soundless dark, I stare.
In time the curtain edges will grow light.
Till then I see what's really always there:
Unresting death, a whole day nearer now,
Making all thought impossible but how
And where and when I shall myself die.
Arid interrogation: yet the dread
Of dying, and being dead,
Flashes afresh to hold and horrify.

The mind blanks at the glare. Not in remorse
- The good not done, the love not given, time
Torn off unused - nor wretchedly because
An only life can take so long to climb
Clear of its wrong beginnings, and may never:
But at the total emptiness forever,
The sure extinction that we travel to
And shall be lost in always. Not to be here,
Not to be anywhere,
And soon; nothing more terrible, nothing more true.

This is a special way of being afraid
No trick dispels. Religion used to try,
That vast moth-eaten musical brocade
Created to pretend we never die,
And specious stuff that says no rational being
Can fear a thing it cannot feel, not seeing
that this is what we fear - no sight, no sound,
No touch or taste or smell, nothing to think with,
Nothing to love or link with,
The anaesthetic from which none come round.

And so it stays just on the edge of vision,
A small unfocused blur, a standing chill
That slows each impulse down to indecision
Most things may never happen: this one will,
And realization of it rages out
In furnace fear when we are caught without
People or drink. Courage is no good:
It means not scaring others. Being brave
Lets no-one off the grave.
Death is no different whined at than withstood.

Slowly light strengthens, and the room takes shape.
It stands plain as a wardrobe, what we know,
Have always known, know that we can't escape
Yet can't accept. One side will have to go.
Meanwhile telephones crouch, getting ready to ring
In locked-up offices, and all the uncaring
Intricate rented world begins to rouse.
The sky is white as clay, with no sun.
Work has to be done.
Postmen like doctors go from house to house.