It was you planted it;

是你种了它；

and it grew high and put on crops of leaves,

然后它长高，生发簇簇绿叶，

extravagant fans; sheltered in it the spider weaves

就像炫富的扇子，遮蔽着结网的蜘蛛，

and birds move through it.

穿梭的飞鸟。

For all it grew so well

尽管它长得这么好，

it never bloomed, though we watched patiently,

但却从未开花，虽然我们守望以耐心，

having shosen its place where we could see

颇费心机地把它摆放在，

it from our window-sill.

从窗台可以看到的地方。

Now, in its eighteenth spring,

现在，在它的第十八个春天，

suddenly, wholly, ceremoniously

突然地，彻底地，节日庆典一般，

it puts off every leaf and stands up nakedly,

它抖落了身上的每片叶子，裸身站立，

calling and gathering,

它呼唤，它召集，一点点，

every capacity in it, every power,

一滴滴，所有的能量，

drawing up from the very roots of being

自那跳动大红脉膊的根系，

this pulse of total red that shocks my seeing

把我的视觉震荡进一片疼痛的花海中。

into an agony of flower.

是你种了它；

It was you planted it;

是我靠在窗台上看它站立在

and I lean on the sill to see it stand

一片干枯的叶子中，就像我们的愿景；

in its dry shuffle of leaves, just as we planned,

是过去的那许多年头，

these past years feeding it.

喂养了它。