By Adrienne Rich （女）艾德里安娜。里奇

　　The river-fog will do for privacy

　　on the low road a breath

　　here， there， a cloudiness floating on the black top

　　sunflower heads turned black and bowed

　　the seas of corn a stubble

　　the old routes flowing north， if not to freedom

　　no human figure now in sight

　　（with whom do you believe your lot is cast？）

　　only the functional¹ figure of the scarecrow

　　the cut corn， ground to shreds²， heaped in a shape

　　like an Indian burial mound³

　　a haunted-looking， ordinary thing

　　The work of winter starts fermenting⁴ in my head

　　how with the hands of a lover or a midwife

　　to hold back till the time is right

　　force nothing， be unforced

　　accept no giant miracles of growth

　　by counterfeit⁵ light

　　trust roots， allow the days to shrink

　　give credence⁶ to these slender means

　　wait without sadness and with grave impatience⁷

　　here in the north where winter has a meaning

　　where the heaped colors suddenly go ashen⁸

　　where nothing is promised

　　learn what an underground journey

　　has been， might have to be； speak in a winter code

　　let fog， sleet⁹， translate； wind， carry them.

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