草刈り -- フロスト

Mowing


THERE was never a sound beside the wood but one,
And that was my long scythe whispering to the ground.
What was it it whispered? I knew not well myself;
Perhaps it was something about the heat of the sun,
Something, perhaps, about the lack of sound―
And that was why it whispered and did not speak.
It was no dream of the gift of idle hours,
Or easy gold at the hand of fay or elf:
Anything more than the truth would have seemed too weak
To the earnest love that laid the swale in rows,
Not without feeble-pointed spikes of flowers
(Pale orchises), and scared a bright green snake.
The fact is the sweetest dream that labor knows.
My long scythe whispered and left the hay to make.

Frost



草刈り

森のそばで、聞こえる音はただ一つ
地面につぶやく僕の長い鎌だ。
鎌は何をつぶやいているのだろう？よくわからなかった。
おそらく熱い太陽とか
静けさとかだろう　―
それでつぶやくだけで　ハッキリとは言わないのだろう。
夢見ているのは楽な時間とか
妖精とかが持っているすばらしい黄金ではない。
真実以外のものは誠実な愛に無力だ。
誠実な愛は沼地に何列も
たおやかな花の穂（白い蘭）を
咲かせ　きらめく緑の蛇をも脅す。
事実こそが作業者の楽しい夢なのだ。
僕の長い鎌はつぶやきながら干し草を残す。

フロスト