There are no stars to-night
But those of memory.
Yet how much room for memory there is
In the loose girdle of soft rain.

There is even room enough
For the letters of my mother’s mother,
Elizabeth,
That have been pressed so long
Into a corner of the roof
That they are brown and soft,
And liable to melt as snow.

Over the greatness of such space
Steps must be gentle.
It is all hung by an invisible white hair.
It trembles as birch limbs webbing the air.

And I ask myself:

“Are your fingers long enough to play
Old keys that are but echoes:
Is the silence strong enough
To carry back the music to its source
And back to you again
As though to her?”

Yet I would lead my grandmother by the hand
Through much of what she would not understand;
And so I stumble. And the rain continues on the roof
With such a sound of gently pitying laughter.

很喜欢的一首 Hart Crane, 试着翻译了一下:

今夜没有星星
不属于记忆。
而记忆的空间却那么多
在细雨松弛的环绕里。

甚至有足够的空间
给信,曾属于我母亲的母亲
伊丽莎白,
它们长久被压在
屋顶的一角
让它们棕黄,柔软
可能像雪一般融化。

在这空间的宽广里
脚步必须轻盈。
一切都悬在一丝看不见的白发上。
它颤抖如桦条在空气中织网。

而我问自己:

「你手指是否足够长,来演奏
仅有回响的古老琴键:
这沉默是否足够强
将音乐带回它的源头
并再次回到你
如回到她?」

但我愿领着祖母挽起她的手
经过这许多她或许不会懂的事;
当我跌撞着。而雨在屋上继续
以一种温和、怜悯的笑声。