罗宾·海蒂诗选
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罗宾·海蒂(Robin Hyde，1906-1939)新西兰女诗人，生于南非，幼年随父母移迁新西兰，定居于威灵顿，在学生时代，就作为“中学生女诗人”而受到地方报刊的一片赞扬。她的主要诗集有《孤寂的星》(1929)、《征服者》(1935)、《冬天里朗普西芬尼》(1937)等。
集聚诗人、小说家、记者等头衔於一身的罗宾‧海德（1906-1939）是纽西兰（即新西兰）最重要的女作家之一。海德出生於南非的开普敦（Cape Town, South Africa），未满週岁时被双亲带到纽西兰（New Zealand）生活。本名艾莉丝‧威尔金森的海德，以多种笔名出版作品；罗宾取自她早夭的长子克里斯多福‧罗宾（Christopher Robin）。
海德在学时（威灵顿女子学校 Wellington Girl's College） 即於校刊发表超过二十首诗和短篇小说；她也曾在依次皇家殖民地学院（Royal Colonel Institute）举办的作文比赛拿下第二名（得奖文章：The Lives of Drake and Raleigh as Empire Builders）。
海德的生活经验常见於她的作品中：1924年海德动了一个膝盖手术手术──致使疼痛和跛足伴她终身──可见於她的文学作品和报章杂誌；和她拥有短暂情缘的哈利‧史威曼（Harry Sweetman）离开她后动身前往英国，却在抵达该地不久即去世，海德和史威曼的非婚生儿子罗宾早夭──接连的不幸事件化成了The Godwits Fly（1938）裡Eliza Hannay的故事。
1929年海德出版了第一本诗集The Desolate Star and Other Poems；1935至1937年间又出版了五本小说，她的写作主题广泛，包括讲述纽西兰歷史的Check To Your King（1936），描写战争的Passport to Hell（1936），承载海德的女人不须结婚也能成為母亲、作家和情人的理想的作品Wednesday's Children（1937），描写一次世界大战后纽西兰社会景况的Nor the Years Condemn（1938），以及具自传色彩的The Godwits Fly。
1938年初，本来计画前往英国的海德在抵达香港后改变心意，转向当时处於抗日战争的中国。她在上海结识了Rewi Alley并亲上前线，见证了战场上的残酷现实，原先她在创作Passport to Hell时想像的画面，现在一一化為现实呈现在她面前。
Two words from China: 'Ku li' – bitter strength.
'This coolies' war!' tinkle the sweet-belled idle.
His face and Hundred Names sweep on below,
Child-like, he plays at horse without the bridle:
And carts a world along, and carts a war,
Tugging perhaps to mountain heights at length:
The new vernacular chronicles exhort him,
Half the fixed meanings of the flags he saw:
He had a happy childhood: then time caught him,
Broadened his shoulders, but forbore his head.
Eight years his life between the shafts: eight hours
(With luck), between Changsha and Hsuchowfu,
Picks swinging like pendulums in a noon of flowers:
Shining their freedom, bombers spot his blue,
But cease to count. Too poor for marriage-bed
He looks for dreaming in the big dim shed,
Rolled in the quilt where other warmth has dossed:
Turns to Yunnan, hacks the next strategy through,
Cheerful; and often killed; and always bossed.
And not on Tiger Head or Purple Mountain
His grave-mound rises: worlds live on, to slake
Their ashy gullets at his bitter fountain
Of blood and vigour. Enemy armies break
Somehow on this, as somehow cracks the stone
Under his pick: but now he rots alone
(Not claiming to have died for something's sake,)
Only the earth makes ready for his bone,
The green rice sees him with unflattering eyes:
Too cheap a partisan for man to prize,
Men seldom know him for their broadest river,
And burnt in the immortal tiles forever.