英文詩歌：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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