2016-02-01 Ellen
昨日的杭州飘起密密麻麻的小雪花。
没想到今冬还会有雪，这于我并不是好事。自从结识了几个流浪猫，并因搬家而不再过问它们，每遇极端天气，我只感到寒从心生，看不见美，只想到罪。
况且现在杭州的雪，总是少了些大气。也许散落在浙江和全国各地的有些学生和朋友们，此时才是被包围在一场痛快的雪里。
到了夜里，再往窗外一望，堆积在植物上的雪在昏黄的灯光里，竟合成了一幅旧贺卡的封面图。细高的路灯，照着一束急速飘悠着坠落的细雪。不得不说，那几束光里藏着许多想象。
然而我也诌不出半句诗来。
幸好我还上过学，每见好景，尚能想起一些相关的零碎句子。在大学里的英美文学课上，曾读过Robert Frost的一首雪诗，但是留在印象里的并不是整首诗，而是相关的意境：独自在黑夜穿过被大雪覆盖的树林的寒意与孤独、对“独钓寒江雪”的迷恋、一匹有些逗比的马、以及最后那句But I have promises to keep/ and miles to go before I sleep对我灵魂的冲击。感叹书读得少，于是再次翻出此诗复习，并与众共赏。 这首诗有几个中文译本，但数下面配的这版最有趣。
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening 雪夜林畔停
By Robert Frost 罗布特*弗雷斯特
郭英然译
Robert Lee Frost (March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963) , American poet
Whose woods these are I think know.
林主我自明，
His house is in the village though;
其舍即在村；
He will not see me stopping here
不知吾之停，
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
赏雪覆满林。
My little horse must think it queer
幼驹有疑团，
To stop without a farmhouse near
安停无人烟；
Between the woods and frozen lake
冰湖莽林间，
The darkest evening of the year.
又逢夜色玄。
He gives his harness bells a shake
马摇缰铃脆，
To ask if there is some mistake .
似询错与对；
The only other sound's the sweep
但闻风语轻，
Of easy wind and downy flake.
且舞飞雪碎。
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
霭林黑且深，
But I have promises to keep,
忽忆诺必信；
And miles to go before I sleep,
方悟前路长，
And miles to go before I sleep,
即行夜岂深！
关于它语言的妙处我不想絮叨些不专业的话，但我仍放不下miles to gp before I sleep。记得学这首诗的时候，老师让我们专门讨论这句的寓意。最后的结论大致是这样：lovely, dark and deep的woods是坟墓, sleep是死亡（哈姆雷特在独白中直接把sleep比作死亡），诗人倦于世，遇到此景，一时对安息的状态有些向往，但是马的铃铛声在提醒他，活着并不只是疲于奔命，也有Promises以及承诺背后的热血。
十年之后，再读一些诗和文章，已经不需要阐释，能够印心的，自然便了悟，尚不及的境界，也不急着了解。如今再读一遍这首雪诗，觉着最后几句的意思，在字面上便已经明明白白了，也许是因为随着年龄增长，对每个字本身的领悟都已经自然而然地加深了。是的，不可一入佳境就痴狂执迷而停留不前，有勇气放弃佳境，才有机会继续寻找，须知“荆棘丛中下足易，月明帘下转身难”（憨山）。即便想要出世，定境也不是轻易就能偶得，圆满的"sleep"不是倒头便得，前方必定还有miles to go，长亭短亭，皆埋伏着数不清的迷境和考验。何况像Robert Frost这样“诺必信”的人，也未必想完全出世，最多只是想想如何“用出世的心做入世的事”。黑夜和大雪给了他一次“一个人静静”的机会，之后的路肯定会走得热血沸腾。
你们觉得呢？
话说回来，Robert Frost似乎真的是非常喜欢为黑夜中的雪景作诗。他还有一首雪诗，如下。我罗嗦不动了，爱读书的你自己体会吧。
The Onset
by Robert Frost (1874-1963)
ALWAYS the same,when on a fated night
At last the gathered snow lets downas white
As may be in dark woods, and with a song
It shall not make again all winter long
Of hissing on the yet uncovered ground,
I almost stumble looking up and round,
As one who overtaken by the end
Gives up his errand, and lets death descend
Upon him where he is, with nothing done
To evil, no important triumph won,
More than if life had never been begun.
Yet all the precedent is on my side:
I know that winter death has never tried
The earth but it has failed: the snow may heap
In long storms an undrifted four feet deep
As measured against maple, birch and oak,
It cannot check the peeper's silver croak;
And I shall see the snow all go down hill
In water of a slender April rill
That flashes tail through last year's withered brake
And dead weeds, like a disappearing snake.
Nothing will be left white but here a birch,
And there a clump of houses with a church.
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