Robert Frost - Of the Stones of the Place 汉译

I farm a pasture where the boulders lie

As touching as a basketful of eggs,

And though they’re nothing anybody begs,

I wonder if it wouldn’t signify

For me to send you one out where you live

In wind-soil to a depth of thirty feet,

And every acre good enough to eat,

As fine as flour put through a baker’s sieve.

I’d ship a smooth one you could slap and chafe,

And set up like a statue in your yard,

An eolith palladium to guard

The West and keep the old tradition safe.

Carve nothing on it. You can simply say

In self-defense to quizzical inquiry:

“The portrait of the soul of my Gransir Ira.

It came from where he came from anyway.”