Morning Song英語(yǔ)詩(shī)歌鑒賞

　　Sylvia Plath

　　Love set you going like a fat gold watch.

　　The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry

　　Took its place among the elements.

　　Our voices echo, magnifying your arrival. New statue.

　　In a drafty museum, your nakedness

　　Shadows our safety. We stand round blankly as walls.

　　I‘m no more your mother

　　Than the cloud that distills a mirror to reflect its own slow

　　Effacement at the wind‘s hand.

　　All night your moth-breath

　　Flickers among the flat pink roses. I wake to listen:

　　A far sea moves in my ear.

　　One cry, and I stumble from bed, cow-heavy and floral

　　In my Victorian nightgown.

　　Your mouth opens clean as a cat‘s. The window square

　　Whitens and swallows its dull stars. And now you try

　　Your handful of notes;

　　The clear vowels rise like balloons.

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