桑德堡作品

在宫殿的阴影中

约翰，让我们走出雾霭，走出斯德哥尔摩街上持续不断的朦胧的微雨，让我们放下风衣领子，摘下帽子，坐在报社里面。

让我们坐在电报中间——咔嗒咔嗒的声音——王冠扔进水沟，千年的霍亨索伦王位分崩离析，一辆单驾马车。

外面是雾霭之夜，雨伞撑起，风衣领子——还有在波罗的海来来往往的所有汽船都亮着灯，舵手清醒冷静。

电报拍到这里——一个又一个国王离去——黄油很贵：在斯德哥尔摩，没给我们的面包购买黄油——一点黄油小馅饼就比所有德国王冠要贵重。

约翰，让我们在雾霭中出去，让我们卷起风衣领子，走在人们嘲笑着国王的街上。

IN THE SHADOW OF THE PALACE

Let us go out of the fog， John， out of the filmy persistent drhzle on the streets of Stockholm， let us put down the collars of our raincoats，take off our hats and sit in the newspapers office.

Let us sit among the telegrams-clickety-elick-the kaiser' s crown goes into the gutter and the Hohenzollem throne of a thousand years falls to pieces a one-hoss shay.

It is a fog night out and the umbrellas are up and the collars of the raincoats-and all the steamboats up and down the Baltic sea have their lights out and the wheelsmen sober.

Here the telegrams come-one king goes and another-butter is costly： there is no butter to buy for our bread in Stockholm-and a little patty of butter costs more than all the crowns of Germany.

Let us go out in the fog，

John，

let us roll up our raincoat collars and go on the streets where men are sneering at the kings.

我是人民，大众

我是人民——大众——人群——群众。

你知道，世界上的所有伟业都是通过我来完成的。

我是劳动者，发明者，世界的衣食创造者。

我是目击历史的观众。拿破仑源自于我，林肯也源自于我。他们死了。然后我派来更多的拿破仑和林肯。

我是种子苗床。我是那将支持众多耕耘活动的大草原。可怕的暴风雨忽视我。我遗忘。我的精华被吮吸出来，被浪费。我遗忘。除了死亡，万物都走向我，让我劳动，放弃我所拥有的东西。而我遗忘。

有时，为了让历史记住，我低声咆哮，抖动自己，溅洒几滴红色之物。然后——我遗忘。

当我——人民，学会记住，当我——人民，使用昨天的教训，而且不再忘记去年是谁抢劫了我，是谁把我当作傻瓜来玩弄——于是，整个世界上就不会有说话者说话，嗓音带着任何一点讥笑或任何遥远的嘲笑，说出这个名字：“人民。”

大众——人群——群众——那时将到达。

IAM THE PEOPLE， THE MOB

I am the people-the mob-the crowd-the mass.

Do you know that all the great work of the world is done through me？

I am the workingman， the inventor， the maker of the world's food and clothes.

I am the audience that witnesses history. The Napoleons come from me and the Lincolns. They die. And then I send forih more Napoleons and Lincolns.

I am the seed ground. I am a prame that will stand for much plowing. Terrible storms pass over me. I forget. The best of me is sucked out and wasted. I forget. Everything but Death comes to me and makes

me work and give up what I have. And I forget.

Sometimes I growl，

shake myself and spatter a few red drops for history to remember. Then-I forget.

When I，the People，learn to remember， when I， the People， use the lessons of yesterday and no longer forget who robbed me last year， who played me for a fool-then there will be no speaker in all the world say the name：“The People，” with any fleck of a sneer in his voice or any far-off smile of derision.

The mob-the crowd-the mass-will amve then.

静物

在观光车厢的栏杆上凉爽你的脚跟。

让引擎把它开到时速九十英里。

从左到右吸收大草原，起伏的土地和新收获的干草，一幅幅躺在阳光下的新割刈的干草。

一个灰白的村庄斑点一样驰过，拴在邮局前面的马从不眨眼。

一座厩棚和十五头荷斯坦奶牛，一幅黑色挂图上的白色小点，从不眨眼。

一个漆黑的夜晚，情侣们低语着走过之际，在堪萨斯城的前哨塔楼上，一个信号员把位置保持在窗前，露出青铜塑像一般的安宁。

STILL LIFE

Cool your heels on the rail of an observation car.

Let the engineer open her up for ninety miles an hour.

Take in the prairie right and left， rolling land and new hay crops， swaths of new hay laid in the sun.

A gray village flecks by and the horses hitched in front of the post-office never blink an eye.

A barnyard and fifteen Holstein cows， dabs of white on a black wall map， never blink an eye.

A signalman in a tower， the outpost of Kansas City， keeps his

place at a window with the serenity of a bronze statue on a darknight when lovers pass whispering.

野餐船

星期天之夜和公园警察相互述说，它黑暗得就像密歇根湖上的一堆黑猫。

一艘硕大的野餐船从索格塔克①的桃子农庄返回芝加哥的家。

千百只电灯泡打破夜晚的黑暗，一群翅膀静止不动的红鸟和黄鸟。

一条条花彩沿着甲板栏杆蔓延，一圈圈灯盏从船头和船尾形成曲线，跳跃到高高的烟囱上。

在我的码头，越过那波浪嘶哑的吱嘎咀嚼声，传来那为回家的人演奏波兰民歌的铜管乐器发出的嗡姆吧声的嘶哑回应。

PICMC BOAT

Sunday night and the park policemen tell each other it is dark as a stack of black cats on Lake Michigan.

A big picnic boat comes home to Chicago from the peach farms ofSaugatuck.

Hundreds of elecUic bulbs break the night's darkness， a flock of red and yellow birds with wings at a stand-still.

Running along the deck railings are festoons and leaping in curves are loops of light from prow and stern to the tall smokestacks.

Over the hoarse crunch of waves at my pier comes a hoarse answer in the thythmic oompa of the brasses playing a Polish folk-song for the home-comers.