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◎ 普拉斯《诗全编》第176-180首“蜜蜂组诗” (阅读5121次)



为了文责自负,任何转载请注明译者和出处,并保留如下文字——
转载自诗生活得一忘二的翻译专栏“雕水之de”,译者可能随时修改专栏中的文字。

普拉斯《诗全编》
第176 首

   养蜂集会

在桥头迎接我的这些人,是谁?是同村居民——
教区长、产婆、教堂司事、蜜蜂代理商。
身穿无袖连衣裙,我无遮无挡,
而他们都戴手套、穿防护服,为何没人告诉我?
他们微笑,取下别在古老的帽子上的面纱。

我像鸡脖子一样赤裸,难道没人爱我?
还好,蜜蜂会秘书走来,穿着店员的白外套,
扣紧我手腕上的滚边袖和从脖子到膝盖的缝隙。
现在,我是马利筋的穗须,蜜蜂注意不到了。
它们嗅不到我的恐惧、我的恐惧、我的恐惧。

现在,哪个是教区长?那个黑衣人?
哪个是产婆?那是她的蓝外套?
每个人都在点头,一只黑色方框,都是披甲挂胄的骑士,
粗棉布的胸甲,结,系在腋窝下。
他们的微笑与嗓音一直在变。我被领着穿过一片豆田。

一条条锡箔像人一样眨眼,
羽毛刷在豆花的海洋中左右挥闪着手掌,
乳脂似的豆花长着黑眼睛,豆叶如烦厌的心。
卷须拽起的那一串,是鲜血的凝块?
不,不,那是猩红的花,终有一天可以食用。

现在他们给我戴一顶时髦的白色意大利草帽,
一块黑面纱配我的脸,把我造就成他们的一员。
领我走向修剪整齐的树林,排成一圈的蜂箱。
是不是山楂树散发出如此难闻的味道?
山楂树不育的身躯,麻醉着它的孩子。

是否正在进行一项手术?
我的邻居们正是在等待手术师,
这幽灵,戴着绿色防护帽、
光洁的手套、一身白套服。
这是屠户、杂货商、邮差?我认识的某人?

我跑不了了,我已生根,荆豆
以它黄色的豆荚和尖长的硬壳刺痛我。
我无法逃跑,一旦逃跑,就得永远逃跑。
白色蜂房温婉,如处女蜂,
封住她的孵巢、她的蜂蜜,柔声嗡鸣。

烟雾缭绕,若丝巾飘曳于树林。
蜂群的头脑认为这是一切的终结。
先遣队冲来了,带着歇斯底里的机动性。
如果我纹丝不动,它们会以为我是欧芹,
轻信的脑袋,免于它们的敌意,

我甚至没有点头,灌木丛中的要人。
村民们打开蜂室,搜捕蜂后。
她在躲藏?在吃蜜?她很聪明。
她老了,老了,老了,她必须再活一年,对此她很清楚。
而在指节似的蜂巢中,新一代处女蜂

梦想着她们注定获胜的决斗。
一道蜡帘隔开她们,无法婚飞,
那女凶手腾飞,驶入钟爱她的天堂。
村民们移动着处女蜂,不会有杀戮。
老蜂后拒不现身,竟如此毫不领情?

我已筋疲力尽,筋疲力尽——
白柱子站在飞刀闪过时的眩晕中。
我是魔术师的女助手,不畏缩。
村民正卸下伪装,互相握手。
树丛中那只白色长箱子是谁的,他们完成了什么,我为何这么冷。
               1962年10月3日

译按:
  有这首诗开始的五首诗具有内在的联系,组成一个小系列,被认为是Plath最重要
的成熟诗作,尤其第一、三首更是受到所有的评家关注。撇开纯私人生活事件外,这第
一首诗中显然让人读到作家霍桑(Hawthorne)的短篇小说The Minister’s Black
Veil和Young Goodman Brown(译为《教长的黑面纱》《年轻的古德曼• 布朗》或《年
轻的好人布朗》)的黑面纱和神秘的入教仪式。而第5节中的“山楂“的英文是
hawthorn,很可能是暗示霍桑。

Sylvia Plath Collected Poems
No. 176

   The Bee Meeting

Who are these people at the bridge to meet me? They are the villagers------
The rector, the midwife, the sexton, the agent for bees.
In my sleeveless summery dress I have no protection,
And they are all gloved and covered, why did nobody tell me?
They are smiling and taking out veils tacked to ancient hats.

I am nude as a chicken neck, does nobody love me?
Yes, here is the secretary of bees with her white shop smock,
Buttoning the cuffs at my wrists and the slit from my neck to my knees.
Now I am milkweed silk, the bees will not notice.
They will not smell my fear, my fear, my fear.

Which is the rector now, is it that man in black?
Which is the midwife, is that her blue coat?
Everybody is nodding a square black head, they are knights in visors,
Breastplates of cheesecloth knotted under the armpits.
Their smiles and their voices are changing. I am led through a beanfield.

Strips of tinfoil winking like people,
Feather dusters fanning their hands in a sea of bean flowers,
Creamy bean flowers with black eyes and leaves like bored hearts.
Is it blood clots the tendrils are dragging up that string?
No, no, it is scarlet flowers that will one day be edible.

Now they are giving me a fashionable white straw Italian hat
And a black veil that molds to my face, they are making me one of them.
They are leading me to the shorn grove, the circle of hives.
Is it the hawthorn that smells so sick?
The barren body of hawthorn, etherizing its children.

Is it some operation that is taking place?
It is the surgeon my neighbors are waiting for,
This apparition in a green helmet,
Shining gloves and white suit.
Is it the butcher, the grocer, the postman, someone I know?

I cannot run, I am rooted, and the gorse hurts me
With its yellow purses, its spiky armory.
I could not run without having to run forever.
The white hive is snug as a virgin,
Sealing off her brood cells, her honey, and quietly humming.

Smoke rolls and scarves in the grove.
The mind of the hive thinks this is the end of everything.
Here they come, the outriders, on their hysterical elastics.
If I stand very still, they will think I am cow-parsley,
A gullible head untouched by their animosity,

Not even nodding, a personage in a hedgerow.
The villagers open the chambers, they are hunting the queen.
Is she hiding, is she eating honey? She is very clever.
She is old, old, old, she must live another year, and she knows it.
While in their fingerjoint cells the new virgins

Dream of a duel they will win inevitably,
A curtain of wax dividing them from the bride flight,
The upflight of the murderess into a heaven that loves her.
The villagers are moving the virgins, there will be no killing.
The old queen does not show herself, is she so ungrateful?

I am exhausted, I am exhausted------
Pillar of white in a blackout of knives.
I am the magician's girl who does not flinch.
The villagers are untying their disguises, they are shaking hands.
Whose is that long white box in the grove, what have they accomplished, why am I cold.
                      3 October 1962


普拉斯《诗全编》
第177首

   蜂箱送到

这是我订购的,一口干净的木箱
椅子般方方正正,重,几乎难以搬起。
想说这是一个侏儒的棺材,
一个很结实的婴孩,
可它里面有翻了天的喧嚣。

箱子锁着,它很危险。
我必须忍着它,过一夜,
可我无法离开它。
没有窗子,所以我看不到里面有什么。
只有一个小小的栅格,没有出口。

我眼睛贴着栅格。
很黑,很黑,
感觉是蠕动的贩运出境的非洲人
细小干瘪的手,
黑上加黑,愤怒地攀爬。

我如何才能把它们放出去?
最令我抓狂的是那噪音,
那么多听不清的音节。
好像一群罗马愚民,
单个地看,很小,可是聚集一起,天呐!

我耳听狂怒的拉丁语。
我不是凯撒。
我真的是订购了一箱燥狂病人。
可以退回。
可以任它们死掉,只要不喂食物,我是主人。

我在想它们有多饿。
我在想如果我打开锁、退后、化为一棵树,
它们会不会忘记我。
那儿有金链花树,垂下金黄的廊柱,
和樱桃似的衬裙。

它们可能立刻忽略我,
我这身月白套装和葬礼面纱。
我又不是蜂蜜的源泉,
它们为何还要冲我而来?
明天,我将做遂人心愿的上帝,还它们自由。

箱子,只是暂时的。
          1962年10月4日

Sylvia Plath Collected Poems
No. 177

  The Arrival of the Bee Box

I ordered this, this clean wood box
Square as a chair and almost too heavy to lift.
I would say it was the coffin of a midget
Or a square baby
Were there not such a din in it.

The box is locked, it is dangerous.
I have to live with it overnight
And I can't keep away from it.
There are no windows, so I can't see what is in there.
There is only a little grid, no exit.

I put my eye to the grid.
It is dark, dark,
With the swarmy feeling of African hands
Minute and shrunk for export,
Black on black, angrily clambering.

How can I let them out?
It is the noise that appalls me most of all,
The unintelligible syllables.
It is like a Roman mob,
Small, taken one by one, but my god, together!

I lay my ear to furious Latin.
I am not a Caesar.
I have simply ordered a box of maniacs.
They can be sent back.
They can die, I need feed than nothing, I am the owner.

I wonder how hungry they are.
I wonder if they would forget me
If I just undid the locks and stood back and turned into a tree.
There is the laburnum, its blond colonnades,
And the petticoats of the cherry.

They might ignore me immediately
In my moon suit and funeral veil.
I am no source of honey
So why should they turn on me?
Tomorrow I will be sweet God, I will set them free.

The box is only temporary.
            4 October 1962

普拉斯《诗全编》
第178首

  蜂蜇

我空手,搬递蜂窝。
那白衣男人微笑着,空手,
我们的粗布护手整洁可爱,
手腕处的开口是百合怒放。
他与我之间

有一千个干净的蜂巢相隔,
八只黄色的杯状蜂窝,
蜂箱本身就像茶杯,
白底粉花,
我给它涂了过多的爱之彩釉

想着“可爱,可爱”。
孵巢灰暗,如贝壳化石,
令我恐惧,它们似乎很老。
我买了什么?蠕虫攒动的红木箱?
真有一只蜂后藏身其中?

就算有,她也老了,
双翅是撕裂的披肩,长长的身体
磨光了长毛绒----
可怜兮兮,赤身裸体,毫无蜂后的威仪,甚至丢人现眼。
我站到有翅膀的

毫不神奇的女性纵队里,
蜜的苦力。
我可不是苦力,
尽管多年来我吃的是尘土,
用我的浓发擦干餐盘。

我的陌生眼见着就被蒸发,
蓝色露珠从危险的皮肤上消散。
她们是否嫉恨我,
这些只会忙忙躁躁的女人,
她们的新闻只是绽开的樱桃与苜蓿?

已经基本结束。
我全盘在控。
这是我的蜂蜜机,
它将不动脑子就正常运转,
开动,在春季,如一只勤勉的处女

巡猎凝结着乳脂的花冠,
像月亮为了那象牙白的粉沫而巡猎海面。
有个第三者在旁观。
他与蜜蜂商或我都不相干。
此刻他已离去,

跳开八大步,一只可贵的替罪羊。
这是他的一只拖鞋,这儿是另一只,
这儿还有他的白麻布方巾,
他曾以此代替帽子。
他真可爱,

他挥汗如雨,
牵引着世界结出果实。
蜜蜂们识破了他,
涌向他谎言似的双唇,
乱了他的五官。

它们认为死得其所,而我
有一个自我需要寻回,一只蜂后。
她死了吗?她是否在沉睡?
她一直蛰伏在何处,
那狮红的身体、玻璃的翅膀?

此刻她骤然飞起,
比任何时候都更加恐怖,红色
伤疤划过天空,红色彗星
超越那杀害她的引擎——
这座陵墓,蜡制的房屋。
       1962年10月6日

译按:
这首诗是所有评论家都不可能忽略的,在五首“蜜蜂诗”中也比较特别,所以对此诗有
很种阐释。诗中的“角色”有养蜂人、工蜂和蜂后,诗人认同于哪一个/几个呢?本诗
主题可说是压迫与解放以及死亡仪式。尤其是女性主义批评或从女性主义角度进行的批
评都倾向于对主题进行如此阐释。


与本诗相关的生活事件如下:
诗人的父亲奥特(Otto)是一位小有名气的昆虫学家,有论著《大黄蜂及其生存方式》。
1961年夏季诗人夫妇在Devon买了新居,一个旧农舍及车库等。诗人开始养蜂。1962年5月18-20日,David及Assia Wevil夫妇来访,Sylvia感觉出Ted与Assia之间的有
某种亲近感,所以甚为妒忌。后来,Ted确实与Assia发展出了婚外情。
21日,诗人据此写出了The Rabbit Catcher《捕兔器》和Event《事件》.
1962年6月15日,诗人写信给她的母亲Aurelia时谈到:当他们新建一个蜂房移动蜂后时,
因为Ted戴帽子,所以蜜蜂飞到了他的头发中了。
1962年10月9日,完成了“蜜蜂诗”。表明想要离婚。夫妇分居。(三天后写出《老爸》,
有如此诗行“如果我杀掉了一人,就等于杀掉两个——/也杀掉了那吸血鬼,他声称是你/
他饮吸我的血已有一年,/已经七年,如果你真想知道。
第8-9行:这里的“杯子”对诗人有着特别的意味。在根据上注4中提到的事件所写的诗《捕兔器》中相关诗行。
第9行:Plath把蜂箱漆成白色,画上一些花朵。
第3-4节:蜂后是一窝蜜蜂中唯一可以产卵的女蜂,当她变老时,她要么杀死其他处女
蜂,要么被某只女蜂所杀而让位。参看《养蜂集会》的第9-10节中。
第5节第24-25行:灰姑娘形象?另外,引诱夏娃的蛇(使她有知识)被诅咒终身食土,
被主耶拯救的妓女Mary Magdalene 以眼泪清洗他的脚,再以头发将它们擦干。
第7-8节:性意象?
第8-10节:第38行中的应该是指Ted,参看上文中有关Plath写给她母亲的信中的内容。
在此他被蜜蜂所蜇是活该的?不过,蜇人的蜜蜂都是女蜂,蜇人后也得死(为了蜂群或
蜂后而牺牲?参看《饲养蜜蜂过冬》中女蜂群体为了取暖而聚集成团。
第11-12节:这里的意象恐怕Plath的读者都明白,参看《拉撒路夫人》《闺阁》《老爸》
《爱丽尔》等诗。

原编者注:这组诗的第一次感发始于8月2日。当时SP(Sylvia Plath)试图写一首诗,但她根本就没有最终定稿,那首诗题为《蜂蛰》。以下是从一堆修来改去的手稿中抽取出来的:(略。——译者)

Sylvia Plath Collected Poems
No. 178

   Stings  

Bare-handed, I hand the combs.
The man in white smiles, bare-handed,
Our cheesecloth gauntlets neat and sweet,
The throats of our wrists brave lilies.
He and I

Have a thousand clean cells between us,
Eight combs of yellow cups,
And the hive itself a teacup,
White with pink flowers on it,
With excessive love I enameled it

Thinking 'Sweetness, sweetness'.
Brood cells gray as the fossils of shells
Terrify me, they seem so old.
What am I buying, wormy mahogany?
Is there any queen at all in it?

If there is, she is old,
Her wings torn shawls, her long body
Rubbed of its plush---
Poor and bare and unqueenly and even shameful.
I stand in a column

Of winged, unmiraculous women,
Honey-drudgers.
I am no drudge
Though for years I have eaten dust
And dried plates with my dense hair.

And seen my strangeness evaporate,
Blue dew from dangerous skin.
Will they hate me,
These women who only scurry,
Whose news is the open cherry, the open clover?

It is almost over.
I am in control.
Here is my honey-machine,
It will work without thinking,
Opening, in spring, like an industrious virgin

To scour the creaming crests
As the moon, for its ivory powders, scours the sea.
A third person is watching.
He has nothing to do with the bee-seller or with me.
Now he is gone

In eight great bounds, a great scapegoat.
Here is his slipper, here is another,
And here the square of white linen
He wore instead of a hat.
He was sweet,

The sweat of his efforts a rain
Tugging the world to fruit.
The bees found him out,
Molding onto his lips like lies,
Complicating his features.

They thought death was worth it, but I
Have a self to recover, a queen.
Is she dead, is she sleeping?
Where has she been,
With her lion-red body, her wings of glass?

Now she is flying
More terrible than she ever was, red
Scar in the sky, red comet
Over the engine that killed her---
The mausoleum, the wax house.
         6 October 1962




普拉斯《诗全编》
第179首

   蜂群

有人正在我们小镇射猎什么——
沉闷的枪声响彻周日的街道。
妒忌能大开血戒,
它能制造黑色玫瑰。
他们瞄准何人射击?

他们拔刀,正式冲着你,
在滑铁卢、滑铁卢,拿破仑,
爱尔巴岛隆起于你低矮的脊背,
雪,排列起它灿灿的刀叉
一批接着一批,说着“嘘!”

嘘!这些是你对弈的象棋人,
静悄悄的象牙像。
泥泞在喉咙里蠕动,
法国军靴踏脚的石块。
俄罗斯镀金的粉红穹顶熔化在贪婪的

熔炉中,漂浮而去。浮云,浮云。
于是蜂群聚成一团,溃逃
至七十呎上空,躲进一株黑松。
必须将那团射落。砰!砰!
子弹闷哑,被当成了雷声。

蜂群以为那是上帝的声音,
赦免了喙、爪、狞笑,
那狗,黄背的,一只负重的狗,
盯着象牙似的骨头狞笑,
正如那狗群、狗群,正如每个人。

蜜蜂已经飞得那么远。七十呎高!
俄罗斯、波兰、还有德意志!
和缓的山丘、古老依旧的一片片
紫红田野,皱缩成一枚便士,
旋转着跌落河流,一条河已被跨越。

蜜蜂们争执不休,黑压压的一大团,
一只飞舞的豪猪,满身硬刺。
那个双手灰色的男人站在蜂窝下,
那是蜜蜂的梦,那蜂房式车站,
火车坚贞地沿着钢铁拱洞

出站,进站,这个国家不会终结。
砰!砰!它们应声而落
分崩离析,落向一簇常青藤。
先遣军、战车骁勇、无敌之师就这样了结!
一块红色破布,拿破仑!

最后一枚胜利勋章。
群蜂被击败,进了竖起的草帽中。
爱尔巴岛,啊,海洋上的气泡!
元帅、司令与上将的白色胸像
蠕虫似地爬进壁龛。

这具有怎样的指导意义!
喑哑的身体标着杠杠,
披着母亲法兰西的装饰布,踏上海盗刑罚的木板条
落入一座新的陵墓,
一座象牙宫殿,一株分叉的松树。

灰色双手的男人微笑了——
生意人的笑,充满浓烈的功利。
那根本不是手,
而是石棉容器。
砰!砰!“它们可能会杀了我。”

蜂蛰大如绘画图钉!
似乎蜜蜂也有尊严的观念,
一种倔强的黑色心智。
拿破仑满意了,对一切都满意了。
哦,欧洲!哦,大量的蜂蜜!
       1962年10月7日

Sylvia Plath Collected Poems
No. 179

   The Swarm

Somebody is shooting at something in our town—
A dull pom, pom in the Sunday street.
Jealousy can open the blood,
It can make black roses.
Who are they shooting at?

It is you the knives are out for
At Waterloo, Waterloo, Napoleon,
The hump of Elba on your short back,
And the snow, marshaling its brilliant cutlery
Mass after mass, saying Shh!

Shh! These are chess people you play with,
Still figures of ivory.
The mud squirms with throats,
Stepping stones for French bootsoles.
The gilt and pink domes of Russia melt and float off

In the furnace of greed. Clouds, clouds.
So the swarm balls and deserts
Seventy feet up, in a black pine tree.
It must be shot down. Pom! Pom!
So dumb it thinks bullets are thunder.

It thinks they are the voice of God
Condoning the beak, the claw, the grin of the dog
Yellow-haunched, a pack-dog,
Grinning over its bone of ivory
Like the pack, the pack, like everybody.

The bees have got so far. Seventy feet high!
Russia, Poland and Germany!
The mild hills, the same old magenta
Fields shrunk to a penny
Spun into a river, the river crossed.

The bees argue, in their black ball,
A flying hedgehog, all prickles.
The man with gray hands stands under the honeycomb
Of their dream, the hived station
Where trains, faithful to their steel arcs,

Leave and arrive, and there is no end to the country.
Pom! Pom! They fall
Dismembered, to a tod of ivy.
So much for the charioteers, the outriders, the Grand Army!
A red tatter, Napoleon!

The last badge of victory.
The swarm is knocked into a cocked straw hat.
Elba, Elba, bleb on the sea!
The white busts of marshals, admirals, generals
Worming themselves into niches.

How instructive this is!
The dumb, banded bodies
Walking the plank draped with Mother France's upholstery
Into a new mausoleum,
An ivory palace, a crotch pine.

The man with gray hands smiles—
The smile of a man of business, intensely practical.
They are not hands at all
But asbestos receptacles.
Pom! Pom! 'They would have killed me.'

Stings big as drawing pins!
It seems bees have a notion of honor,
A black intractable mind.
Napoleon is pleased, he is pleased with everything.
O Europe! O ton of honey!
            7 October 1962

普拉斯《诗全编》
第180首

  越冬

这是清闲时节,无须操劳。
我已旋转产婆的吸引器,
我有自己的蜜,
整整六罐,
藏在酒窖里的六只猫眼,

在无窗的黑暗中饲养蜜蜂越冬,
在房屋的中心,
挨着上一位租户腐臭的果酱
以及许多闪光的空瓶子——
某先生的杜松子酒。

这个房间我从不曾走进。
这个房间里我以不能呼吸。
黑,像一只蝙蝠聚拢于此,
没有光,
除了火炬和它依稀的

中国黄,照着毛骨悚然的物体——
黑色的愚笨。腐朽。
收藏。
正是这些东西控制我。
并不残酷也非毫不在乎,

只是无知。
这个时节,蜜蜂必须撑下去——它们
如此迟缓,我几乎认不出它们,
士兵似地列队
向糖浆罐移动,

索赔我取自它们的蜜。
塔特莱尔牌白糖维系它们活下去,
这精炼的雪。
现在它们靠塔特莱尔牌白糖,而非花朵。
它们吸食着。寒冷逼近。

它们聚成一大团,
黑色
头脑对抗着所有的白。
雪的微笑是白皑皑的。
它肆意铺展,一哩长的躯体,像梅森牌瓷器。

在暖和的日子,它们只得将
死者运送到这样的躯体中。
蜜蜂都是女人,
使女和那位修长的皇族贵妇,
她们已驱除了男人,

那帮顽梗、迂拙、失足于歧途的粗鄙汉子。
冬季,属于女人——
那位妇人,静静地织着毛线,
在西班牙胡桃木的摇篮旁,
身体是寒冷中的球茎,喑哑得不能思索。

这箱蜜蜂能否存活,这些剑兰
能否成功封火,
进入来年?
它们会体味到什么?圣诞节的玫瑰?
蜜蜂在飞。它们体味到了春天。
          1962年10月9日

译按:
按诗人自己为诗集《爱丽尔》排定的顺序,第一首诗是《晨歌》,最后一首是此诗。
即全书第一个词是“爱(love)”,最后一个词是“春(spring)”。而诗人死后由其
丈夫调整了顺序,结果意义发生变化。很多现代评论家认为其丈夫出于个人的原因,
故意让世人误解这位自杀的女诗人。从诗中应该可以读出女诗人在写此诗时,其实不仅
还是很坚强(“这是蜜蜂应坚撑下去的时节”),而且也还充满着母性的柔情(“那
位妇人,静静地忙于编织,/在西班牙胡桃木的摇篮旁”),同时心中仍有希望在(“它
们体味出了春天”)。

Sylvia Plath Collected Poems
No. 180
   Wintering

This is the easy time, there is nothing doing.
I have whirled the midwife's extractor,
I have my honey,
Six jars of it,
Six cat's eyes in the wine cellar,

Wintering in a dark without window
At the heart of the house
Next to the last tenant's rancid jam
And the bottles of empty glitters—
Sir So-and-so's gin.

This is the room I have never been in.
This is the room I could never breathe in.
The black bunched in there like a bat,
No light
But the torch and its faint

Chinese yellow on appalling objects—
Black asininity. Decay.
Possession.
It is they who own me.
Neither cruel nor indifferent,

Only ignorant.
This is the time of hanging on for the bees—the bees
So slow I hardly know them,
Filing like soldiers
To the syrup tin

To make up for the honey I've taken.
Tate and Lyle keeps them going,
The refined snow.
It is Tate and Lyle they live on, instead of flowers.
They take it. The cold sets in.

Now they ball in a mass,
Black
Mind against all that white.
The smile of the snow is white.
It spreads itself out, a mile-long body of Meissen,

Into which, on warm days,
They can only carry their dead.
The bees are all women,
Maids and the long royal lady.
They have got rid of the men,

The blunt, clumsy stumblers, the boors.
Winter is for women—
The woman, still at her knitting,
At the cradle of Spanish walnut,
Her body a bulb in the cold and too dumb to think.

Will the hive survive, will the gladiolas
Succeed in banking their fires
To enter another year?
What will they taste of, the Christmas roses?
The bees are flying. They taste the spring.
             9 October 1962



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