This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary.

这是心灵之光，冷冷的，像行星。

The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue.

心灵之树群是黑色的。光是蓝色。

The grasses unload their griefs on my feet as if I were God,

草儿将它们的悲伤卸载至我的脚背，仿佛我是上帝，

Prickling my ankles and murmuring of their humility.

刺痛我的脚踝，呢喃着它们的谦卑。

Fumy, spirituous mists inhabit this place

冒着蒸汽的，精纯的雾栖居此地

Separated from my house by a row of headstones.

与我的房子之间隔着一排墓石。

I simply cannot see where there is to get to.

我只是看不见，到底可以去哪里。

The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right,

月亮不是一扇门。它自身就是一张脸，

White as a knuckle and terribly upset.

白如指节，焦躁异常。

It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet

它身后拖曳着大海像一桩幽暗的罪；它安静

With the O-gape of complete despair. I live here.

带着全然绝望的O形口。我住在这里。

Twice on Sunday, the bells startle the sky—

每周日两次，铃声惊动天空——

Eight great tongues affirming the Resurrection.

八条伟大的舌头确认着基督复活。

At the end, they soberly bong out their names.

最后，它们清醒地当当敲出自己的名字。

The yew tree points up. It has a Gothic shape.

紫杉指向天空。它有哥特式身形。

The eyes lift after it and find the moon.

眼睛跟随它上升就会找到月亮。

The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary.

月亮是我的母亲。她不像玛丽那么和蔼。

Her blue garments unloose small bats and owls.

她蓝色的衣衫松开，放出小蝙蝠和小猫头鹰。

How I would like to believe in tenderness—

我多希望能相信温柔——

The face of the effigy, gentled by candles,

假人的脸，在烛光下显得柔和，

Bending, on me in particular, its mild eyes.

特为在我身上垂下，它温驯的眼睛。

I have fallen a long way. Clouds are flowering

我已经坠落了好远。云朵在星辰表面

Blue and mystical over the face of the stars.

绽放着蓝色的神秘的花朵。

Inside the church, the saints will be all blue,

在教堂内，圣人们都将是蓝色，

Floating on their delicate feet over the cold pews,

飘浮在他们纤细的脚上，在冰冷的条凳上方，

Their hands and faces stiff with holiness.

他们的手和脸因圣洁而僵硬。

The moon sees nothing of this. She is bald and wild.

月亮看不见这一切。她秃顶又狂野。

And the message of the yew tree is blackness—blackness and silence.

而紫杉的信息是黑色——漆黑与寂静。