一
就像我的手指在这些琴键上
奏出音乐，相同的声音
也在我的灵魂上奏出音乐。
音乐是感觉，而非声音；
因此，我的感觉是，
在这房间里，渴望你，
想你那蓝影丝绸，
就是音乐。它像是
苏珊娜唤醒长者的旋律：
在一个绿色傍晚，清澈而温暖，
她在静谧的花园中沐浴，
而那些红眼长者，注视着，感受到
他们存在的低音颤动
在迷人的和弦中，他们稀薄的血液
拨动着和撒那的琴弦。
Peter Quince at the Clavier By Wallace Stevens
I
Just as my fingers on these keys
Make music, so the selfsame sounds
On my spirit make a music, too.
Music is feeling, then, not sound;
And thus it is that what I feel,
Here in this room, desiring you,
Thinking of your blue-shadowed silk,
Is music. It is like the strain
Waked in the elders by Susanna:
Of a green evening, clear and warm,
She bathed in her still garden, while
The red-eyed elders, watching, felt
The basses of their beings throb
In witching chords, and their thin blood
Pulse pizzicati of Hosanna.
