Have You Ever Tried to Enter the Long Black Branches by Mary Oliver

你曾经试图想进入其他生命
长黑的树枝间吗--
试图想象鲜嫩的流苏是何物，充满了蜜，
悬挂在
小洋槐树的枝桠间，在清晨，
感觉像...？
你认为这个世界只为娱乐你吗？
永远不要进入海，看见水如何完美谦恭地
分开，让你进入！
永远不要躺在绿草上，仿佛你就是草！
永远不要跃到空中，同时张开你的翅膀
越过你心中黑暗的橡果！
难怪我们听见，你满嘴声音，
抱怨你人生中失去的东西！
谁能打开门却够不到门闩？
谁可以旅行数英里却没有迈出一只脚
在其他生命面前，全神贯注于当下本身
如何继续？
谁将看见内心却没有赞赏地观察
甚至着迷于，这外部的石头？
好了，这就是时间留下的--
田野到处邀请你进入。
无论你身在何处，无论你溜达多远，要寻找你的灵魂
谁会在意，谁会责备呢？
赶紧地，就现在，起来，穿上你的外套，离开你的书桌！
把你的脚放进草地的门里，它是神秘的，
它既有毁灭也孕育着生命，
不要怕！
让你的脚踏上死亡之门，惊愕地克服！
坐在杂草面前，想象
这位十指弹奏的神，驶出他稻草的房子，
以这种或那种方式点头致意，对着当下时光中的
花朵，
对着嘲鸫鸟粉色的嘴中掉落下来的歌，
对着夜里张开了的
忍冬花的斗篷
坐下吧，像杂草中的一棵，在风中发出沙沙声！
听，你只要还有一点呼吸，不就叫人生吗？
而灵魂，毕竟，只是一面窗子，
敞开窗子并不比
从小睡中醒来那么难。
仅仅在上周，我出去到荆棘丛中，对
野玫瑰说：
不要拒绝我，
只忍受我的热忱吧。
然后，整个下午，我坐在它们之中。大概
我甚至听见了一阵丝丝缕缕的音乐，潮湿的胭脂红，
忙乱地脱离矮壮的蓓蕾，脱离它们娇柔的水嫩的身体。
你还要继续听那些黑暗的大喊大叫者多久呢，
小心谨慎？
深陷!深陷！
一位站在草丛中的女人。
一条小船不知所措地在深波中，
接下来的事情就是缓慢优雅的来临。
期间，时不时，我有幸，置身于永恒不变
而又瞬息万变之中，
人还有什么可求呢？
我想触摸雏菊的脸，
我会俯下身子
为它费心思。
就是那时，还没有终结。
现在太阳开始下降。在平和的光中，
我穿过田野和沙丘，我沿海边小路而行。
我爬上，我原路折回。
我轻盈走动。
我漫步回家。
Have you ever tried to enter the long black branches
of other lives -
tried to imagine what the crisp fringes, full of honey,
hanging
from the branches of the young locust trees, in early morning,
feel like?
Do you think this world was only an entertainment for you?
Never to enter the sea and notice how the water divides
with perfect courtesy, to let you in!
Never to lie down on the grass, as though you were the grass!
Never to leap to the air as you open your wings over
the dark acorn of your heart!
No wonder we hear, in your mournful voice, the complaint
that something is missing from your life!
Who can open the door who does not reach for the latch?
Who can travel the miles who does not put one foot
in front of the other, all attentive to what presents itself
continually?
Who will behold the inner chamber who has not observed
with admiration, even with rapture, the outer stone?
Well, there is time left -
fields everywhere invite you into them.
And who will care, who will chide you if you wander away
from wherever you are, to look for your soul?
Quickly, then, get up, put on your coat, leave your desk!
To put one's foot into the door of the grass, which is
the mystery, which is death as well as life, and
not be afraid!
To set one's foot in the door of death, and be overcome
with amazement!
To sit down in front of the weeds, and imagine
god the ten-fingered, sailing out of his house of straw,
nodding this way and that way, to the flowers of the
present hour,
to the song falling out of the mockingbird's pink mouth,
to the tippets of the honeysuckle, that have opened
in the night
To sit down, like a weed among weeds, and rustle in the wind!
Listen, are you breathing just a little, and calling it a life?
While the soul, after all, is only a window,
and the opening of the window no more difficult
than the wakening from a little sleep.
Only last week I went out among the thorns and said
to the wild roses:
deny me not,
but suffer my devotion.
Then, all afternoon, I sat among them. Maybe
I even heard a curl or tow of music, damp and rouge red,
hurrying from their stubby buds, from their delicate watery bodies.
For how long will you continue to listen to those dark shouters,
caution and prudence?
Fall in! Fall in!
A woman standing in the weeds.
A small boat flounders in the deep waves, and what's coming next
is coming with its own heave and grace.
Meanwhile, once in a while, I have chanced, among the quick things,
upon the immutable.
What more could one ask?
And I would touch the faces of the daises,
and I would bow down
to think about it.
That was then, which hasn't ended yet.
Now the sun begins to swing down. Under the peach-light,
I cross the fields and the dunes, I follow the ocean's edge.
I climb, I backtrack.
I float.
I ramble my way home.