by Thom Gunn
The snail pushes through a green
night, for the grass is heavy
with water and meets over
the bright path he makes, where rain
has darkened the earth's dark. He
moves in a wood of desire,
pale antlers barely stirring
as he hunts. I cannot tell
what power is at work, drenched there
with purpose, knowing nothing.
What is a snail's fury? All
I think is that if later
I parted the blades above
the tunnel and saw the thin
trail of broken white across
litter, I would never have
imagined the slow passion
to that deliberate progress.
蜗牛感怀
蜗牛用触角推进墨绿色的
夜晚，因为草叶上湿漉漉
沾满水珠，耷拉着交织在
它推出的明亮小径，雨在上面
使大地的昏暗更加昏暗。它
在欲望之林中缓缓蠕动。
它捕食时，苍白的触角
几乎不动。我无法说出
什么力量起作用，在那里
浸透于百思不解的思绪中。
蜗牛的愤懑何在?我仅仅
这样遐想：即使稍后一些时候
我拨开蜗牛爬过的路上的叶片，
但见它留下的细细痕迹
粘着破碎的白色微粒，穿过
垃圾碎屑，那我也难以想像
伴随它从容前进的
徐迟缓慢的激情。