蜚声大洋两岸的美国大诗人——菲利普·拉金

That Whitsun, I was late getting away:Not till aboutOne-twenty on the sunlit SaturdayDid my three-quarter-empty train out,All windows down, all cushions hot, all senseOf being in a hurry gone. We ranBehind the backs of houses, crossed a streetOf blinding windsoreens, smelt the fish-dock; thenceThe river’s level drifting breadth began,Where sky and lincolnshire and water meet.