上午在网易公开课看了Robin Morgand的演讲视频：迟暮之歌，其中有一首诗名字叫做This dark hour,很喜欢，网上搜不到，于是就一边看一边记了下来。
Late summer,4A.M.
The rain slows to a stop,
dripping still from the broad leaves of blun hostas unseen in the garden’s dark.
Barefoot,careful on the slick slate slabs.
I need no light, I know the way,
stoop by the mint bed
scoop a fistful if moist earth
then gripe for a chair,spread a shank ,
and sit ,breathing in the wet green August air.
The is the small,still hour，
before the newspaper lands in the vestibule like a grenade,
the phone Sheila,the computer screen blinks and glares awak.
There is this hour:
poem in my head,soil in my hand:
unnamable fullness.
This hour ,when blood of my blood,bone of bone,child grown to manhood now,
stranger,intimate,not distant but apart,
lies safe,off dreaming melodies while love sleeps,safe,in his arms .
To have come to this place,
lived to this moment:
immeasurable lightness .
The density of black starts to blur umber.
Tentative,a cardinal’s coloratura,
then the morning dove’s elegy,
sable glimmers toward grey;
objects emerge,trailing shadows;
night ages toward day.
The city stirs.
There will be other dawns,nights,gaudy noons.
Likely,I’ll lose my way.
There will be stumbling,falling,cursing the dark .
Whatever comes,
there was this hour when nothing mattered ,
all was unbearably dear.
And when I’m done with daylights,
should those who loved me grieve too long a while .
Let them remember that I had this hour—this dark,perfect hour and smile.
This dark hour