在冬季最早的尽头，

At the earliest ending of winter,

在三月，室外有一声清瘦的鸣叫

In March, a scrawny cry from outside

仿佛是内心的回音。

Seemed like a sound in his mind.

他确信他听到了，是

He knew that he heard it,

一声鸟鸣，大约在破晓时分，

A bird's cry at daylight or before,

在三月的晨风里。

In the early March wind.

太阳六点升起，

The sun was rising at six,

不再是雪景上空的破头盔，

No longer a battered panache above snow . . .

而是俨然在室外。

It would have been outside.

它不是睡梦之废纸上

It was not from the vast ventriloquism

空话连篇的缥缈的口技，

Of sleep's faded papier mâché . . .

不，太阳确实照亮了室外。

The sun was coming from outside.

那清瘦的鸣叫，就是

That scrawny cry—it was

唱诗班的领唱的先声，就是

A chorister whose c preceded the choir.

太阳大而无外的一部分，

It was part of the colossal sun,

被一圈圈合唱队围拢，

Surrounded by its choral rings,

虽然还很渺远。它宛如

Still far away. It was like

一种新的对现实的探究。

A new knowledge of reality.