Wallace Stevens, Fosfor lêst by syn eigen ljocht

 
Fosfor lêst by syn eigen ljocht

It is lestich lêzen. De bledside is tsjuster.
Dochs wit er wat it is dat er ferwachtet.

De bledside is blanko of in finster sûnder glês
Of in glês dat leech is as er sjocht.

De nachtlike grienens leit op de bledside
En sakket djip yn it lege glês…

Sjoch, realist, net wittend watst ferwachtest.
It grien dringt him oan dy op asto sjochst,

Dringt him op en makket en jout, in rede sels.
En do tinkst dat dat is watst ferwachtest,

Dy elemintêre oarsprong, de griene nacht,
Dy’t in skimich alfabet dosearret.

 

Phosphor Reading by His Own Light

It is difficult to read. The page is dark.
Yet he knows what it is that he expects.

The page is blank or a frame without a glass
Or a glass that is empty when he looks.

The greenness of night lies on the page and goes
Down deeply in the empty glass . . .

Look, realist, not knowing what you expect.
The green falls on you as you look,

Falls on and makes and gives, even a speech.
And you think that that is what you expect,

That elemental parent, the green night,
Teaching a fusky alphabet.

 

Ut Parts of a World, 1942

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