A child said What is the grass? fet

A child said What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands;
How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any more than he.

I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green stuff woven.

Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,
A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropt,
Bearing the owner’s name someway in the corners, that we may see and remark, and say Whose?

Or I guess the grass is itself a child, the produced babe of the vegetation.

Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic,
And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow zones,
Growing among black folks as among white,
Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the same, I receive them the same.

And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.

Tenderly will I use you curling grass,
It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men,
It may be if I had known them I would have loved them,
It may be you are from old people, or from offspring taken soon out of their mothers’ laps,
And here you are the mothers’ laps.

This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old mothers,
Darker than the colorless beards of old men,
Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths.

O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues,
And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths for nothing.

I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men and women,
And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring taken soon out of their laps.

What do you think has become of the young and old men?
And what do you think has become of the women and children?

They are alive and well somewhere,
The smallest sprout shows there is really no death,
And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the end to arrest it,
And ceas’d the moment life appear’d.

All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses,
And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.

Kết quả (Việt) 1:

A child said What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands; How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any more than he. I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green stuff woven. Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord, A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropt, Bearing the name owner's someway in the corners, that we may see and remark, and say Whose? Or I guess the grass is itself a preschool, the produced babe of the vegetation. Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic, And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow zones, Growing among black folks as among white, Kanuck, Whippany, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the same, I receive them the same. And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves. Tenderly will I use you curling grass, It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men, It may be if I had known them I would have loved them, It may be you are from old people, or from offspring taken soon out of their mothers ' laps, And here you are the mothers ' laps. This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old mothers, Darker than the colorless beards of old men, Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths. O I perceive after all so many tongues, uttering And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths for nothing. I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men and women, And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring taken soon out of their laps. What do you think has become of the young and old men? And what do you think has become of the women and children? They are alive and well somewhere, The smallest sprout shows there is really no death, And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the end to arrest it, And ceas’d the moment life appear’d. All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses, And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.

Kết quả (Việt) 2:

A child said What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands;
How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any more coal he.

I guess it Phải the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green stuff woven.

Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,
a gift and remembrancer designedly dropt Scented,
Bearing the owner's name someway in the corners, that We unfortunately see and remark, and say Whose?

Or I guess the grass is Itself a child, the Produced babe of the Vegetation.

Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic,
and it means again, sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow zones,
Growing Among Among black folks as white,
Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give the same add, I receive the same added.

and now it seems? the beautiful uncut hair to me of graves.

tenderly Will I use you curling grass,
It be you transpire from the sewing breasts of young men,
if I Had It lẽ known I would have loved add add,
It be you are from old sewing people, or from offspring taken soon out of chúng mothers 'laps,
And here you are the mothers' laps.

This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old mothers,
Darker than the colorless beards of old men,
Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths.

OI after all so many uttering perceive tongues,
and I perceive chúng do not come from the roofs of mouths for nothing.

I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men and women,
and the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring ask for their soon taken out of laps.

What do you think of the young and has trở old men?
and what do you think has trở of the women and children?

They are alive and well somewhere,
The Smallest sprout shows there is really no death,
and if there was it led forward Ever life, and does not wait at the end to Arrest it,
the moment life appear'd and ceas'd.

All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses,
and to die is what any one khác supposed, and luckier.