‘Listen, now, verse should be as natural

“听着，诗应出之天然，

As the small tuber that feeds on muck

像花茎，以粪为肥，

And grows slowly from obtuse soil

在迟钝的土壤里慢慢生长，

To the white flower of immortal beauty.’

终于成为不朽的美丽白花。”

‘Natural, hell! What was it Chaucer

“天然？别见鬼！乔叟怎么说的，

Said once about the long toil

做诗需要长年的辛苦，

That goes like blood to the poem’s making?

不辛苦诗就没有血液。

Leave it to nature and the verse sprawls,

听任天然，诗只会乱爬，

Limp as bindweed, if it break at all

像枯草一样无力，又怎能穿透

Life’s iron crust. Man, you must sweat

生活的铁壳！伙计，你得流汗，

And rhyme your guts taut, if you’d build

得苦吟到断肠，如果你想

Your verse a ladder.’

搭个楼梯接诗下凡。”

‘You speak as though

                      “你说这话

No sunlight ever surprised the mind

像是从来没有阳光突然照亮心灵，

Groping on its cloudy path.’

使它不再在黑路上摸索。”

‘Sunlight’s a thing that needs a window

“阳光得有窗子

Before it enter a dark room.

才能进入里屋，

Windows don’t happen.’

而窗子不是天生的。”

So two old poets,

               就这样，两个老诗人

Hunched at their beer in the low haze

拱肩喝着啤酒，在一个烟雾腾腾的

Of an inn parlour, while the talk ran

酒店里，四周声音嘈杂，

Noisily by them, glib with prose.

谈话人用的全是散文。