作者littlebinroy (Ulysses)
看板poetry
標題Departure
時間Thu Jul 8 21:33:22 2004
Departure
The figs on the fig tree in the yard are green;
Green, also, the grapes on the green vine
Shading the brickred porch tiles.
The money's run out.
How nature, sensing this, compounds her bitters.
Ungifted, ungrieved, our leavetaking.
The sun shines on unripen corn.
Cats play in the stalks.
Retrospect shall not soften this penury--
Sun's brass, the moon's steely patinas,
The leaden slag of the world--
But always expose
The scraggy rock spit shielding the town's blue bay
Against which the brunt of the outer sea
Beats, is brutal endlessly.
Gull-fouled, a stone hut
Bares its low lintel to corroding weathers:
Across the jut of ochreous rock
Goats shamble, morose, rank-haired,
To lick the sea-salt.
--Sylvia Plath
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