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        By Adrienne Rich (女)艾德里安娜。里奇

          The river-fog will do for privacy

          on the low road a breath

          here, there, a cloudiness floating on the black top

          sunflower heads turned black and bowed

          the seas of corn a stubble

          the old routes flowing north, if not to freedom

          no human figure now in sight

         ?。╳ith whom do you believe your lot is cast?)

          only the functional figure of the scarecrow

          the cut corn, ground to shreds, heaped in a shape

          like an Indian burial mound

          a haunted-looking, ordinary thing

          The work of winter starts fermenting in my head

          how with the hands of a lover or a midwife

          to hold back till the time is right

          force nothing, be unforced

          accept no giant miracles of growth

          by counterfeit light

          trust roots, allow the days to shrink

          give credence to these slender means

          wait without sadness and with grave impatience

          here in the north where winter has a meaning

          where the heaped colors suddenly go ashen

          where nothing is promised

          learn what an underground journey

          has been, might have to be; speak in a winter code

          let fog, sleet, translate; wind, carry them.


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