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The Writer

分类: 英语诗歌 
by Richard Wilbur

    In her room at the prow of the house

    Where light breaks, and the windows are tossed with linden,

    My daughter is writing a story.

    I pause in the stairwell, hearing

    From her shut door a commotion of typewriter-keys

    Like a chain hauled over a gunwale.

    Young as she is, the stuff

    Of her life is a great cargo, and some of it heavy:

    I wish her a lucky passage.

    But now it is she who pauses,

    As if to reject my thought and its easy figure.

    A stillness greatens, in which

    The whole house seems to be thinking,

    And then she is at it again with a bunched clamor

    Of strokes, and again is silent.

    I remember the dazed starling

    Which was trapped in that very room, two years ago;

    How we stole in, lifted a sash

    And retreated, not to affright it;

    And how for a helpless hour, through the crack of the door,

    We watched the sleek, wild, dark

    And iridescent creature

    Batter against the brilliance, drop like a glove

    To the hard floor, or the desk-top,

    And wait then, humped and bloody,

    For the wits to try it again; and how our spirits

    Rose when, suddenly sure,

    It lifted off from a chair-back,

    Beating a smooth course for the right window

    And clearing the sill of the world.

    It is always a matter, my darling,

    Of life or death, as I had forgotten.  I wish

    What I wished you before, but harder.

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