英语翻译原文如下I am lying in bed beside an open window in the house.The room is dark,and the moonlight is brilliant on the yard outside.Everything is recessed in those marvelous blue depths of the summer night; the grass and the leaves glisten.The arbor is white and gleaming across the way,the screens black and opaque until someone inside strikes a match,and the little flame,set away in that darkness,is intensely bright for a moment,then gone out; and then a

英语翻译
原文如下
I am lying in bed beside an open window in the house.The room is dark,and the moonlight is brilliant on the yard outside.Everything is recessed in those marvelous blue depths of the summer night; the grass and the leaves glisten.The arbor is white and gleaming across the way,the screens black and opaque until someone inside strikes a match,and the little flame,set away in that darkness,is intensely bright for a moment,then gone out; and then a cigarette glows there,now and then visible.On such evenings the family sits there in the arbor without lamps,letting the night take hold of them,savoring the cool air.But in the house it is warm.It would be uncomfortably warm were it not for that same most delicate breeze that steals in at the window.It is impossible to say how clean and delicious it is.I hear voices from the arbor,low,monotonous,indistinct--and now and again laughter; there are crickets and frogs across the range of the night,everywhere,no-where.And at long intervals I hear trucks passing along the highway on the south side of the house,in the red cut of the knoll,the high-pitched signing of the tires.There is something unspeakably lonely in that sound,and in that respect it is like the faraway whistle of a train,or the wind at Keet Seel.It is so familiar to me,a sound which seems to pervade my memory of those Indian evenings in Oklahoma; and yet I think it has nothing to do with me,after all; it might as well be the whir of a star moving across infinity.The door opens and the room flares up in yellow light; around the wails slivers of shadows leap to the lamp in my grandmother's hand.She places the lamp on a bureau,looses her long braids,dresses for bed.And then she prays aloud in Kiowa,standing,her eyes closed fight in concentration and earnestness.Her voice goes on and on; it is strange-sounding,rich,rhythmical,hypnotic.I try to hold on to it,to stay awake inside it,but I slip away at last into sleep.I awaken,and the voice,my father's voice,laps softly against my mind,and it is warm in the bed,under heavy blankets,and there is a taut wind at the windows,and the winter is coming on.Deer are huddled in the Carizos; horses are braced against the cold at Lukachukai.