洛威尔经典诗歌欣赏(2)

　　We need a battle to shake the clouds;

　　But I am a man of peace, my ways

　　Don't look to the killing of men in crowds.

　　Poor fellows with guns and bayonets for shrouds!

　　Pray, Mademoiselle, come out of the sun.

　　Let me dust off that wicker chair. It's cool

　　In here, for the green leaves I have run

　　In a curtain over the door, make a pool

　　Of shade. You see the pears on that stool --

　　The shadow keeps them plump and fair."

　　Over the fruiterer's door, the leaves

　　Held back the sun, a greenish flare

　　Quivered and sparked the shop, the sheaves

　　Of sunbeams, glanced from the sign on the eaves,

　　Shot from the golden letters, broke

　　And splintered to little scattered lights.

　　Jeanne Tourmont entered the shop, her poke

　　Bonnet tilted itself to rights,

　　And her face looked out like the moon on nights

　　Of flickering clouds. "Monsieur Popain, I

　　Want gooseberries, an apple or two,

　　Or excellent plums, but not if they're high;

　　Haven't you some which a strong wind blew?

　　I've only a couple of francs for you."

　　Monsieur Popain shrugged and rubbed his hands.

　　What could he do, the times were sad.

　　A couple of francs and such demands!

　　And asking for fruits a little bad.

　　Wind-blown indeed! He never had

　　Anything else than the very best.

　　He pointed to baskets of blunted pears

　　With the thin skin tight like a bursting vest,

　　All yellow, and red, and brown, in smears.

　　Monsieur Popain's voice denoted tears.

　　He took up a pear with tender care,

　　And pressed it with his hardened thumb.

　　"Smell it, Mademoiselle, the perfume there

　　Is like lavender, and sweet thoughts come