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英文诗歌：The Writer
The Writer
by Richard Wilbur
In her room at the prow of the house
Where light breaks， and the windows are tossed with linden，
My daughter is writing a story.
I pause in the stairwell， hearing
From her shut door a commotion of typewriter-keys
Like a chain hauled over a gunwale.
Young as she is， the stuff
Of her life is a great cargo， and some of it heavy：
I wish her a lucky passage.
But now it is she who pauses，
As if to reject my thought and its easy figure.
A stillness greatens， in which
The whole house seems to be thinking，
And then she is at it again with a bunched clamor
Of strokes， and again is silent.
I remember the dazed starling
Which was trapped in that very room， two years ago；
How we stole in， lifted a sash
And retreated， not to affright it；
And how for a helpless hour， through the crack of the door，
We watched the sleek， wild， dark
And iridescent creature
Batter against the brilliance， drop like a glove
To the hard floor， or the desk-top，
And wait then， humped and bloody，
For the wits to try it again； and how our spirits
Rose when， suddenly sure，
It lifted off from a chair-back，
Beating a smooth course for the right window
And clearing the sill of the world.
It is always a matter， my darling，
Of life or death， as I had forgotten. I wish
What I wished you before， but harder.
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