洛威尔经典诗歌欣赏(5)

　　When you needed help. You need no more;

　　'Tis we now who must beg at your door,

　　And will you refuse?" The little man

　　Bustled, denied, his heart was good,

　　But times were hard. He went to a pan

　　And poured upon the counter a flood

　　Of pungent raspberries, tanged like wood.

　　He took a melon with rough green rind

　　And rubbed it well with his apron tip.

　　Then he hunted over the shop to find

　　Some walnuts cracking at the lip,

　　And added to these a barberry slip

　　Whose acrid, oval berries hung

　　Like fringe and trembled. He reached a round

　　Basket, with handles, from where it swung

　　Against the wall, laid it on the ground

　　And filled it, then he searched and found

　　The francs Jeanne Tourmont had let fall.

　　"You'll return the basket, Mademoiselle?"

　　She smiled, "The next time that I call,

　　Monsieur. You know that very well."

　　'Twas lightly said, but meant to tell.

　　Monsieur Popain bowed, somewhat abashed.

　　She took her basket and stepped out.

　　The sunlight was so bright it flashed

　　Her eyes to blindness, and the rout

　　Of the little street was all about.

　　Through glare and noise she stumbled, dazed.

　　The heavy basket was a care.

　　She heard a shout and almost grazed

　　The panels of a chaise and pair.

　　The postboy yelled, and an amazed

　　Face from the carriage window gazed.

　　She jumped back just in time, her heart

　　Beating with fear. Through whirling light

　　The chaise departed, but her smart

　　Was keen and bitter. In the white

　　Dust of the street she saw a bright

　　Streak of colours, wet and gay,

　　Red like blood. Crushed but fair,　　Her fruit stained the cobbles of the way.

　　Monsieur Popain joined her there.

　　"Tiens, Mademoiselle,

　　c'est le General Bonaparte,

　　partant pour la Guerre!"