注：以下文本是热心网友 Eva Huang 自己的听写稿，其中可能有不正确之处，敬请注意。

And now the VOA Special English program, American Stories.

Our story today is called his first poem. It was written by Francis Ann Frost. Here is Shirley Griffith with the story.

John’s farm lay in the middle of many hills. The hills rode up and down and way to the far off the mountains. On top of the hills stood the farm house and the barn where the animals lived. When John drove the cows through the hills, he liked to look at the mountains. As he walked high on the hills, he felt as if he was returning from a long visit. John’s closest neighbor, Clint Hard lived two miles down the road. When John’s father died, Clint came to visit John.

“What are you going to do now John, living the house alone?”

“There is nothing else I can’t do. I can work the farm alone.”

“You should get married, John, a young man like you.”

“Well, I will think about it?” John said, “But first, I have to pay the banks for the farm of mine.”

“Gosh, you will be 80 years old before the farm is paid for. Come to visit us at Saturday night. We have a new record player for Sally. And there are some new records you can listen to.”

Clint left and John began to milk the cow. He thought of Sally. A year later, he and Sally were married. Sally did not know she had married a poet as well as a farmer. She found this so two weeks after they had been married. John came out the woods with some flowers for her. “I can not give you rich gifts but I can bring you flowers from the woods if you like them.” She put her hand on his face gently. “I like flowers better than gifts, John.” “I have a poem for you, too.” He said, “Listen, you know how small the thing a man is and learn this much for our soul and body. The heart being dead, no part can be free. It means…” John explained, “We must keep love each other and be happy what we have. Even it is not much. Because if the heart has no love, we are dead.”

She was completely surprised. “Why, John, that is lovely. Did you write the poem?”

He smiled and his face became a little red. “Well, you did. I did not know you wrote poetry. Let me read more tonight after we eat.”

He left her and walked to the animals in the barn. Under the dry hay grass, there was an old worn book of English poetry. He found it in the house one day while he was cleaning that was before his marriage. John held the book of old poetry close to me. It meant so much to him. He though what he could give Sally, himself, it was not much; his farm, it was a poor farm. It was not even paid for. But the old poems in this wonderful book that was something he could bring Sally. But she believed the poems were his that he wrote them.

He knew he was wrong to let her believe this. That was not honest. At first, he did not think this would happen. But now that she believed the poems for his, she loved him even more. This made him so happy. She would never know the truth about the poems. He studied another poem and studied it once more the next day while he worked in the fields. In the evening, they walked in the moonlight and looked at the mountains, he spoke the words of the poem.

“The earth was green, the sky was blue, I saw and heard one sunny morning, a skylark flied between the two. A singing speck above the corn.”

These poems made her happy, and her happiness meant more to him than food and drink.

After their son was born, he learned more poems. Each time, he spoke the words of poem, she said: “That is lovely, John.”

The farm didn’t grow much food when the daughter Joanna was born.

John and Sally worked very hard to pay taxes and money they owned the bank for the farm. On winter nights, after the babies were in bed, Sally would sit, sewing near the stove, John sat near her. She would look at him and smile and said: “John, tell me another poem.”

“I haven’t got a new one.”

“Tell me the one about love let’s be true.”

And he would say softly.

“Ahh love, let us be true to one another. For the world which seems to be lie before us like a land of dreams, so various, so beautiful, so new. Has really need joy, nor love, nor light.”

The years passed slowly, John and Sally worked together making money to pay for their farm. When Bob, their son ended his high school, he said to his father: “I would like to go to college, dad, I want to be an engineer.”

Joanna, a year later, said: “Dad, I want to teach at school. I will make money to become a teacher if you let me.”

“What do you want to teach?”

“English.” Said Joanna, “Poetry.”

John smiled: “I think your mother will like that.”

Later when the children came home for the week of Christmas, the house was bright with Christmas colors. The whole family felt warm with the spirit of holiday.

The night before Christmas, Joanna said: “Mother, will you come to my room, I want to tell you something.” Joanna took a little book from her schoolbag to show her mother.

“What is that?” Sally asked.

“Mother, the poems you have been listened to all these years.”

“Yes?”

“They are all in this book.”

“What do you mean, Joanna?”

“I mean dad did not write them. They were written a long time ago by English poets. Mother don’t you see he has not been honest. He has been telling you he wrote them.”

“No,” Said sally, “I told him he wrote them. He never said anything. He just spoke the words of poetry. Joanna, I should never let him know I found out the truth. It will break his heart.”

The girl looked at her mother for a long time and then said: “You two are the nicest people I have ever seen. I wish I had not told you.” “Now I know how much he loves me. He has made me proud of him all these years. It must be difficult for your father not tell me, Joanna.”

The children ended the college. Another spring came, John and sally were now 60 years old. One day, John drove to the village and paid the bank. The farm was at last his. That week, the weather became very better and Sally became sick. She grew worse and John went to the village for a doctor. “Pneumonia.” The doctor said. Sally had a high fever. John sat near her on the bed. His face was white as he sat, holding her hot hands.

“John,” She said in a weak voice, “Poem, new one.”

John was troubled. He had told her all the poems again and again. “Alright, darling.” Slowly, with terrible effort, he put some words together, he made her a poem, his own poem, the only one he had ever made in his life.

“These mountains that are ours for ever shall die,

Fling the drafting flowers and plants up the sky.

With words of darkness, they speak across the night.

With wind hills of starless mountain top take flight.

My love and eye shall follow those grand in space.

Her head is in my arms hollow.

My legs on her dear face.”

“You made a poem, John?”

“Yes.” John answered.

Sally really did not believe John wrote a poem. But he did not know this. How could he? He buried her where she could see the mountains, the book of English poems lay with her and so did the flowers from the woods.

You have just heard the story his first poem. It was written by Francis Ann Frost. Our narrator was Shirley Griffith. This is Bob Doughty.