似乎错了，这只鸟

It seems wrong that out of this bird,

很黑，扎眼，让人觉得

Black, bold, a suggestion of dark

四周漆黑，但从那竟传出

Places about it, there yet should come

如此丰富的音乐，仿佛

Such rich music, as though the notes'

那发亮的嘴一触，音符的

Ore were changed to a rare metal

矿石都成了稀有的金属。

At one touch of that bright bill.

你时常听它歌唱，独自在案前，

You have heard it often, alone at your desk

在青葱的四月，心思被牵引

In a green April, your mind drawn

离开了本职，沉浸于屋外

Away from its work by sweet disturbance

那温柔夜色的甜美搅扰。

Of the mild evening outside your room.

一个舒缓的歌者，可每个乐句

A slow singer, but loading each phrase

都载着历史的泛音：爱、欢

With history's overtones, love, joy

与悲，那是他的黑色部族

And grief learned by his dark tribe

在其他果园学到的，并本能地

In other orchards and passed on

流传下来，就像现在这般，

Instinctively as they are now,

带着新泪而永远常新。

But fresh always with new tears.