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by Thom Gunn

The snail pushes through a green

night, for the grass is heavy

with water and meets over

the bright path he makes, where rain

has darkened the earth's dark. He

moves in a wood of desire,

pale antlers barely stirring

as he hunts. I cannot tell

what power is at work, drenched there

with purpose, knowing nothing.

What is a snail's fury? All

I think is that if later

I parted the blades above

the tunnel and saw the thin

trail of broken white across

litter, I would never have

imagined the slow passion

to that deliberate progress.

蜗牛感怀

蜗牛用触角推进墨绿色的

夜晚，因为草叶上湿漉漉

沾满水珠，耷拉着交织在

它推出的明亮小径，雨在上面

使大地的昏暗更加昏暗。它

在欲望之林中缓缓蠕动。

它捕食时，苍白的触角

几乎不动。我无法说出

什么力量起作用，在那里

浸透于百思不解的思绪中。

蜗牛的愤懑何在?我仅仅

这样遐想：即使稍后一些时候

我拨开蜗牛爬过的路上的叶片，

但见它留下的细细痕迹

粘着破碎的白色微粒，穿过

垃圾碎屑，那我也难以想像

伴随它从容前进的

徐迟缓慢的激情。