The Loon by Mary Oliver

不太到早晨四点，而活着的狂喜
把我从睡梦中敲醒，我从舒服的
床上爬起来，走进另一个房间，
我的书在此排成一列
整洁而五颜六色的书行。
它们多么神奇啊！我选了一本
打开它。不久
我就漫步在词语的波浪之上
到达思想的圣殿
     
              然后我听见外面，
真实的波浪之上，潜鸟，微小，
完美的声音。他也醒了，
昂起他沉重的脑袋，他大声呼喊着
渐渐隐退的月亮，东方渐渐增大的红晕，
很快将变成长长，合乎情理的白天。
       
              进入这栋房子
它仍然是黑暗的，除了一摊
我坐在下面的灯光。
我没有合上书本。
好久，我也没有继续读下去。
Not quite four a.m., when the rapture of being alive
strikes me from sleep, and I rise
from the comfortable bed and go
to another room, where my books are lined up
in their neat and colorful rows. How
magical they are! I choose one
and open it. Soon
I have wandered in over the waves of the words
to the temple of thought.
                  And then I hear
outside, over the actual waves, the small,
perfect voice of the loon. He is also awake,
and with his heavy head uplifted he calls out
to the fading moon, to the pink flush
swelling in the east that, soon,
will become the long, reasonable day.
                        Inside the house
it is still dark, except for the pool of lamplight
in which I am sitting.
                  I do not close the book.
Neither, for a long while, do I read on.