Richard说，这其实是一首烂诗，不够精确，不够深刻并且显得烂情。可是我很喜欢。忍看朋辈成新鬼，闭门不出写烂诗。自己写的还没有人家写得好。于是简单用我的方式翻译一下，顺便想念一下Richard、James、Howard，更要纪念一下老黄、Doron、Miriam……

A. E. Housman
by: H. W. Auden

No one, not even Cambridge, was to blame
(Blame if you like the human situation):
Heart-injured in North London, he bacame
The Latin Scholar of his generation.

能怪谁？甚至，能怪剑桥吗？
你要真地热爱生活你就怪吧。
在北伦敦伤透了心，他成为
他那一代拉丁学者的第一人。

Deliberately he chose the dry-as-dust，
Kept tears like dirty postcards in a drawer;
Food was his public love, his private lust
Something to do with violence and the poor.

他是成心地要选择枯燥乏味，
用奁中老明信片来保藏眼泪；
人前他追求口腹之欲，私下
脑海里飘荡着贫穷以及暴力。

In savage foot-notes on unjust editions
He timidly attacked the life he led,
And put the money of his feelings on

苛酷的脚注送给不义的版本
打击的其实是他自己的人生，
因为他只能把悲欢都奉献给

The uncritical relations of the dead,
Where only geographical divisions
Parted the coarse hanged soldier from the don.

那个与评断绝缘的死人世界，
那里在吊死的土兵和士人之间
才可能只是地理意义的距离。