Robert Frost（1874－1963），20世纪美国最杰出的诗人，作品以朴素、深邃著称，庞德、艾略特、博尔赫斯、布罗茨基等大师都对之有过相当的评价。他的一生，既不幸又充满光彩：有40岁之前的坎坷曲折，后半生的寂寞孤独，又有四获普利策诗歌奖、44种名誉学位和种种荣誉。他常常被称作美国诗坛的两面神，作品和人格遭到攻击，却又始终维持一个大诗人的和蔼形象，又是诗人、农夫和哲学家的三位一体。弗罗斯特一直通过具体的实物、情景写诗，斯蒂文斯说，你爱写实物，弗罗斯特反唇相讥，你爱写古董，这其实是诗人预先选择的精神图式和写作形式，一生几乎没有多大变化。作为以自然方式关注现实的大诗人，他对世界的态度既不像华兹华斯那样充满柔情，也不像斯蒂文斯那样粗壮、强硬，而是显得矛盾、折中，和他的精神导师爱默生一样带有超验主义。他向维吉尔学写田园牧歌，向哈代、叶芝等人学习平淡而富有暗示的语言，但用意更精深，作品常常通过时空反差的形式，也就是具体情境中的变化、对比，从而形成一个个坚固封闭却又极其开放的诗歌文本，简洁地表达出存在的真相，化腐朽为神奇。他喜欢戴着面具写作，崇尚文学的游戏原则，一开始就写得朴素含蓄，第一本诗集《男孩的意愿》（1913）就显示了过人的语言才华。虽然弗罗斯特一直戴着面具写作，但我更愿意将他称为 “一位伟大的徘徊者”。他徘徊在自然和人类、自我和事物、现实和理想之间，像被上帝驱逐的天使一样平静而又苦恼地审视着尘世生活。弗罗斯特幼年丧父，中年丧妻，老年丧子，他的坎坷人生常使他在作品中流露阴暗和悲观，但他更多是想用诗歌这种崇高的艺术形式排遣存在的焦虑和慌乱。他明智而不极端，曾在一首诗中将世界比作自己的情人，于是喋喋不休的吵闹就成为他摇曳的情思和毕生的哲学追求。他非常懂得独特是什么东西。他对现代诗歌的贡献，主要在于果断地拒绝了自由诗体(free verse)的潮流，以个人的兴趣探索出结合传统的抑扬格韵律和日常生活话语、结合古典人文情怀和现代怀疑精神的新诗体 (blank verse)，看似保守，实则妙笔生花。在精神的高标和题材的深广度上，自波德莱尔以来的诗歌大师几乎无一人能和但丁相比，但弗罗斯特的探索应该说是走得最自然、最深远的，所以深受世界各国各层次读者的欢迎，在美国更是家喻户晓。弗罗斯特创作的朴素无华、寓意深刻的抒情短诗和戏剧性浓烈、艺术性高超的叙事长诗应该说经得起任何考验，无韵诗、变体十四行、双行体等各种形式的作品都有佳作，和华兹华斯一样堪称体裁大师。他自16岁写诗，一直到89岁去世，半个多世纪笔耕不辍，共出版10余本诗集，主要有《波士顿以北》(1914)，《山间》(1916)，《新罕布什尔》(1923)，《西流的小溪》(1928)，《见证树》(1942)，《林间空地》(1962)等，在美国文学史上具有独特的地位，在世界文学史上也是一颗璀璨之星。然而，弗罗斯特在中国，如同余光中所说“损失惨重”，因为日常语言性的诗歌经过翻译，精华丧失殆尽。这里选译的几十首诗，表面上是弗罗斯特各个时期的创作精华，却也极有可能仍是以讹传讹。但是，通过它们，我们大致可以感受一位天才诗人的精神世界，一种对人类、对尘世生活的个性理解。它们对于中国当代诗人的写作，应该说依然具有非常重要的借鉴意义。
译者小传
徐淳刚（1975- ），蓝田猿人后裔。著有诗集、小说、哲学随笔。现居西安。
西去的溪水
□ 山
山，像是暗中紧握着小镇。
有一次，临睡前，我望了很长时间的山：
我注意到，它黑沉沉的身躯戳上了天，
使我看不到西天上的星。
它，似乎离我很近：就像
我身后的一面墙，在风中庇护着我。
拂晓前，当我为了看个新鲜而向前走，
我发现山和小镇之间，
有田野，一条河，以及对岸，大片的田野。
那时，正是枯水期，河水
漫过鹅卵石哗哗地流去，
但从它流的样子，仍可想见春天的泛滥；
一片漂亮的草地在河谷中闪现，草里
有沙子，和被剥去皮的浮木。
我穿过河流，转悠着走向山。
在那里，我遇见了一个面色苍白的男人
他的牛拉着沉重的车子缓慢地走着，
就是拦住他，让他停下来也没关系。
“这是什么镇？”我问。
“这儿？卢恩堡。”
看来，是我搞错了：我逗留的小镇，
在桥那边，不属于山，
晚上我感觉到的，只是它朦胧的影子。
“你的镇子在哪儿？是不是很远？”
“这边没有镇，只有零星几个农场。
上次选举，我们才六十个人投票。
我们的人数，总不能自然而然地多起来：
那家伙，把地方占完了！”他扬了扬手中的小棍
指着挺立在那边的山。
山腰的牧场，向上延伸了一小段，
然后是前面有一排树木的墙：
再往上，就只能看见树梢，悬崖峭壁
在树叶中间若隐若现。
一条干涸的溪谷在大树枝下
一直伸进牧场里。
“那看上去像条路。
是不是从这儿能上到山顶？——
今天早上不行，只能换个时间：
我现在该回去吃饭了。”
“我不建议你从这儿上山。
没有什么正路，那些
上过山的，都是从拉德家那儿往上爬的。
得往回走十五里。你可不能走错了：
他们在去年冬天把远处的一些树砍掉了。
我倒是想捎你去，可惜不顺路。”
“你，从来没爬过它？”
“我以前上到过山腰
打过鹿，钓过鱼。有条小溪
的源头就在那儿的什么位置——我听说
在正顶端，最高处——真是怪事。
不过，这小溪会让你感兴趣，
因为，它在夏天总是冷的，冬天却暖。
就说冬天，那水雾好比
公牛在喘气，壮观得太，
水汽沿着两岸的灌木丛蔓延，使它们长了
一寸多厚的针状霜毛——
那样子你知道。然后就是，阳光在上面闪闪发亮！”
“这倒是天下一景
从这座山上望去——如果一直到山顶
没有那么多树就好了。”我透过浓密的树叶
看见阳光和树影中大片的花岗岩台阶，
心想，爬山时膝盖会碰在那上面
身后，还有十几丈的悬崖深渊；
转过身子，坐在上面向下俯视，
胳膊肘就会碰到岩缝里长出的羊齿草。
“这我不敢说。但泉水有，
正好在山顶，几乎像一个喷泉。
应该值得去看一看。”
“或许，它真的在那儿。
你，从来没看到过？”
“我想，它在那儿这个
事儿不值得怀疑，虽说我从来没见过。
它或许不是在正顶端：
山间的水源，不一定非得从
最高处那么长一路下来，
从大老远爬上来的人或许不会注意
其实，头顶上还有很远。
有一次，我对一个爬山的人说
你去看看，再告诉我它到底是什么样子。”
“他说了什么？”
“他说，在爱尔兰
的什么地方，山顶上有个湖。”
“湖是另一回事。泉水呢？”
“他爬得不够高，没看见。
所以我才不建议你从这边爬——
他就是从这儿爬的。我总想上去
亲眼看看，但是你知道：
一个人在这山里呆了一辈子
爬山就没有意思。
我爬它干什么？要我穿上工作服，
拿着根大棒子，去赶在挤奶时间
吃草还没回来的奶牛？
或者，提把猎枪，去对付迷路的黑熊？
反正，不能只为爬上去而爬。”
“我不想爬，也不会爬——
不为上山。那山，叫什么？”
“我们都叫它霍尔，不知道对不对。”
“能不能绕着它走？会不会太远？”
“你可以开车转转，但要在卢恩堡境内，
不过，你能做的也就是这些，
因为卢恩堡的边界线紧紧贴着山脚。
霍尔就是镇区，镇区就是霍尔——
一些房屋星星点点散布在山脚下，
就像是悬崖上崩裂的圆石头，
朝远处多滚了一截子。”
“你刚才说，泉水冬天暖、夏天冷？”
“我根本不认为，水有什么变化。
你和我都清楚，说它暖
是跟冷比，说它冷，是跟暖比。
真有意思，同一件事，就看你怎么说。”
“你一辈子都在这儿住？”
“自从霍尔
的大小还不如一个——”说的什么，我没听见。
他用细长的棍子轻轻碰了碰牛鼻子
和后面的肋骨，把绳子朝自己拽了拽，
吆喝几声，然后慢悠悠地走远了。
The Mountain
The mountain held the town as in a shadow
I saw so much before I slept there once:
I noticed that I missed stars in the west,
Where its black body cut into the sky.
Near me it seemed: I felt it like a wall
Behind which I was sheltered from a wind.
And yet between the town and it I found,
When I walked forth at dawn to see new things,
Were fields, a river, and beyond, more fields.
The river at the time was fallen away,
And made a widespread brawl on cobble-stones;
But the signs showed what it had done in spring;
Good grass-land gullied out, and in the grass
Ridges of sand, and driftwood stripped of bark.
I crossed the river and swung round the mountain.
And there I met a man who moved so slow
With white-faced oxen in a heavy cart,
It seemed no hand to stop him altogether.
“What town is this?” I asked.
“This? Lunenburg.”
Then I was wrong: the town of my sojourn,
Beyond the bridge, was not that of the mountain,
But only felt at night its shadowy presence.
“Where is your village? Very far from here?”
“There is no village--only scattered farms.
We were but sixty voters last election.
We can"t in nature grow to many more:
That thing takes all the room!”He moved his goad.
The mountain stood there to be pointed at.
Pasture ran up the side a little way,
And then there was a wall of trees with trunks:
After that only tops of trees, and cliffs
Imperfectly concealed among the leaves.
A dry ravine emerged from under boughs
Into the pasture.
“That looks like a path.
Is that the way to reach the top from here?--
Not for this morning, but some other time:
I must be getting back to breakfast now.”
“I don"t advise your trying from this side.
There is no proper path, but those that have
Been up, I understand, have climbed from Ladd"s.
That"s five miles back. You can"t mistake the place:
They logged it there last winter some way up.
I"d take you, but I"m bound the other way.”
“You"ve never climbed it?”
“I"ve been on the sides
Deer-hunting and trout-fishing. There"s a brook
That starts up on it somewhere--I"ve heard say
Right on the top, tip-top--a curious thing.
But what would interest you about the brook,
It"s always cold in summer, warm in winter.
One of the great sights going is to see
It steam in winter like an ox"s breath,
Until the bushes all along its banks
Are inch-deep with the frosty spines and bristles--
You know the kind. Then let the sun shine on it!”
“There ought to be a view around the world
From such a mountain--if it isn"t wooded
Clear to the top.”I saw through leafy screens
Great granite terraces in sun and shadow,
Shelves one could rest a knee on getting up--
With depths behind him sheer a hundred feet;
Or turn and sit on and look out and down,
With little ferns in crevices at his elbow.
“As to that I can"t say. But there"s the spring,
Right on the summit, almost like a fountain.
That ought to be worth seeing.”
“If it"s there.
You never saw it?”
“I guess there"s no doubt
About its being there. I never saw it.
It may not be right on the very top:
It wouldn"t have to be a long way down
To have some head of water from above,
And a good distance down might not be noticed
By anyone who"d come a long way up.
One time I asked a fellow climbing it
To look and tell me later how it was.”
“What did he say?”
“He said there was a lake
Somewhere in Ireland on a mountain top.”
“But a lake"s different. What about the spring?”
“He never got up high enough to see.
That"s why I don"t advise your trying this side.
He tried this side. I"ve always meant to go
And look myself, but you know how it is:
It doesn"t seem so much to climb a mountain
You"ve worked around the foot of all your life.
What would I do? Go in my overalls,
With a big stick, the same as when the cows
Haven"t come down to the bars at milking time?
Or with a shotgun for a stray black bear?
Twouldn"t seem real to climb for climbing it.”
“I shouldn"t climb it if I didn"t want to--
Not for the sake of climbing. What"s its name?”
“We call it Hor: I don"t know if that"s right.”
“Can one walk around it? Would it be too far?”
“You can drive round and keep in Lunenburg,
But it"s as much as ever you can do,
The boundary lines keep in so close to it.
Hor is the township, and the township"s Hor--
And a few houses sprinkled round the foot,
Like boulders broken off the upper cliff,
Rolled out a little farther than the rest.”
“Warm in December, cold in June, you say?”
“I don"t suppose the water"s changed at all.
You and I know enough to know it"s warm
Compared with cold, and cold compared with warm.
But all the fun"s in how you say a thing.”
“You"ve lived here all your life?”
“Ever since Hor
Was no bigger than a----”What, I did not hear.
He drew the oxen toward him with light touches
Of his slim goad on nose and offside flank,
Gave them their marching orders and was moving.
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