Richard Wilbur - A Storm in April 汉译

Some winters, taking leave,

Deal us a last, hard blow,

Salting the ground like Carthage

Before they will go.

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But the bright, milling snow

Which throngs the air today —

It is a way of leaving

So as to stay.

The light flakes do not weigh

The willows down, but sift

Through the white catkins, loose

As pedal-draft,

Or in an up-draft lift

And glitter at a height,

Dazzling as summer’s leaf-stir

Chinked with light.

This storm, if I am right,

Will not be wholly over

Till green fields, here and there,

Turn white with clover,

And through chill air the puffs of milkweed hover.