The trilling wire in the blood sings below inveterate scars appeasing long-forgotten wars.
血液中发着颤弦在永不消失伤疤下歌唱,安抚那早已忘却战争。
All about my garden to-day the birds are loud. To say that the air is filled with their song gives no idea of the ceaseless piping, whistling, trilling, which at moments rings to heaven in a triumphant unison, a wild accord.
今天在我花园周围,鸟儿很吵。说空气中充满了他们歌声,却丝毫没有想到不断笛声、口哨声、颤,它们时不时以一种胜利齐鸣、一种狂野协奏响彻天空。