Robert Frost (1874-1963) was born in San Francisco. He was one of America's leading 20th-century poets and a four-time winner of the Pulitzer Prize. An essentially pastoral poet often associated with rural New England, Frost wrote poems with philosophical dimensions transcend any region.

佛洛斯特(1874-1963) 生于旧金山，是美国最受爱戴广被阅读的诗人之一。基本上他是个田园诗人，多写同新英格兰州乡间有关的事物，但他诗中的哲思却不受地域的限制。

李作昌，1936 年生于江西南昌市。1957年毕业于台大电机系，1964年于斯坦佛大学电机系获博士学位。之后在美国高科技工业界从事研发工作长达三十八年。退休以后，重拾年轻时对诗的喜爱，开始写作发表。

T. C. Lee was born in Nanchang, Kiangsi, China 1936. He graduated with B. S. degree from National Taiwan University and from Stanford University with Ph. D in 1964, both in Electrical Engineering. Then he worked in R&D with the high tech industry in US for thirty eight years. After retirement he devoted his long hobby and love in poetry and starting writing poems for several magazines.

An Old Man's Winter Night

一个老人的冬夜

ALL out of doors looked darkly in at him
Through the thin frost, almost in separate stars,
That gathers on the pane in empty rooms.
What kept his eyes from giving back the gaze
Was the lamp tilted near them in his hand.
What kept him from remembering what it was
That brought him to that creaking room was age.
He stood with barrels round him—at a loss.
And having scared the cellar under him
In clomping there, he scared it once again
In clomping off;—and scared the outer night,
Which has its sounds, familiar, like the roar
Of trees and crack of branches, common things,
But nothing so like beating on a box.
A light he was to no one but himself
Where now he sat, concerned with he knew what,
A quiet light, and then not even that.
He consigned to the moon, such as she was,
So late-arising, to the broken moon
As better than the sun in any case
For such a charge, his snow upon the roof,
His icicles along the wall to keep;
And slept. The log that shifted with a jolt
Once in the stove, disturbed him and he shifted,
And eased his heavy breathing, but still slept.
One aged man—one man—can't fill a house,
A farm, a countryside, or if he can,
It's thus he does it of a winter night.
			

门外的黑夜瞅着他，透过
这些空空的房间的玻璃窗，
每面窗上都有一片薄霜，几许星光。
他并未对外回视，
因为他手上的提灯斜靠在眼旁。
他站在大酒桶边---恍恍惚惚，
上了岁数的他已经忘记
为何走进这间吱吱喳喳的酿酒房。
来时噗咚噗咚的步声
吓住了这间地窖，
走回去时又吓了它一跳，
也吓住了黑夜，当然黑夜也有自己的声响，
像树干的呼叫，树枝的吱喳，
但跟敲击木箱似的响音全不一样。
他是自己之光，与外人无干，
他坐着，不知何所思虑，
寂静之光吗，也不尽然。
他心服于月光胜于日光，虽然
月亮残缺不全，上升得又迟缓，但月光
让积雪留于屋顶，又让
屋檐下的冰柱安好无恙；
他睡着了。火炉里的木条突然移动方位，
被打搅的他转动了一下，
沉重的呼吸缓慢下来，又继续酣睡。
一个老人----一个人----不能填满一座房子，
一个农庄，一片原野， 
即使他能，过一个冬夜也就是如此。
			

Meeting And Passing

聚与散

As I went down the hill along the wall
There was a gate I had leaned at for the view
And had just turned from when I first saw you
As you came up the hill. We met. But all
We did that day was mingle great and small
Footprints in summer dust as if we drew
The figure of our being less than two
But more than one as yet. Your parasol
Pointed the decimal off with one deep thrust.
And all the time we talked you seemed to see
Something down there to smile at in the dust.
(Oh, it was without prejudice to me!)
Afterward I went past what you had passed
Before we met and you what I had passed. 
			

我往山下走，沿着一面墙，
倚靠着一扇墙门观赏风光，
望见你从山下上来。正待转身，
你人已到，我们相识。
但是整天就像一大一小的两双脚印
在夏天的沙尘上併合，本来
是画一幅大于一小于二的图形，
但你的身影往前一冲，
小数点后的数字也就落了个空。
整个谈话的时间里，你似乎
看见沙尘里有什么东西很可笑。
（哦，那可不是冲我而来）
事后我经过相逢之前你已经走过的路，
你也经过了我已经走过的路。