“听着，诗应出之天然，

‘Listen, now, verse should be as natural

像花茎，以粪为肥，

As the small tuber that feeds on muck

在迟钝的土壤里慢慢生长，

And grows slowly from obtuse soil

终于成为不朽的美丽白花。”

To the white flower of immortal beauty.’

“天然？别见鬼！乔叟怎么说的，

‘Natural, hell! What was it Chaucer

做诗需要长年的辛苦，

Said once about the long toil

不辛苦诗就没有血液。

That goes like blood to the poem’s making?

听任天然，诗只会乱爬，

Leave it to nature and the verse sprawls,

像枯草一样无力，又怎能穿透

Limp as bindweed, if it break at all

生活的铁壳！伙计，你得流汗，

Life’s iron crust. Man, you must sweat

得苦吟到断肠，如果你想

And rhyme your guts taut, if you’d build

搭个楼梯接诗下凡。”

Your verse a ladder.’

                      “你说这话

‘You speak as though

像是从来没有阳光突然照亮心灵，

No sunlight ever surprised the mind

使它不再在黑路上摸索。”

Groping on its cloudy path.’

“阳光得有窗子

‘Sunlight’s a thing that needs a window

才能进入里屋，

Before it enter a dark room.

而窗子不是天生的。”

Windows don’t happen.’

               就这样，两个老诗人

So two old poets,

拱肩喝着啤酒，在一个烟雾腾腾的

Hunched at their beer in the low haze

酒店里，四周声音嘈杂，

Of an inn parlour, while the talk ran

谈话人用的全是散文。

Noisily by them, glib with prose.