“你为什么这么长时间不说话?”你用温和责备的语气问道。亲爱的朋友，难道你不知道，歌曲是一门“快乐的科学”，不是一项任务吗?只有在上帝高兴的时候，黑刺李才会枯萎，橡子才会掉落;缪斯不理会凡人的点头，也不来招呼。如果我为了迎合人们的口味，天天歌唱，那我还能有什么比咆哮或怒骂更好的呢?除非拨动那看不见的源泉，快乐的数字不会流动;这样，人就像一只不鸣叫的鸟，窝在积雪里。说，你可曾坐着做梦，当夏日的云白而静，在乡村磨坊下蜿蜒而过的潺潺溪水旁?慵懒的水流几乎不动;有时你几乎怀疑它的流动; Loitering in shallow sandy grooves, It makes no music as it goes. The sluice is down, the mill-race still, Nor in mid-stream nor water's edge Comes faintest ripple, tiniest rill, To stir the flag, or sway the sedge. Beside the dozing stream you doze, For nothing wakes in air or sky: It feels as if Time's eyelids close, And 'tis the same to live or die; To be a passive part of all That rounds Heaven's universal plan, Of things that soar, of things that crawl, Of mindless matter, as of man. When slowly through the noonday sleep A phantom something seems to stir, Like waves of dewy light that creep Along gray chords of gossamer. At first it is nor sight nor sound, But feeling only, inward sense Of motion slowly rising round, You know not where, you know not whence. Then, noiseless still, but plain to see, The languid waters wake and wind; The wave before now fears to be O'ertaken by the wave behind. The race, long pent, from out the mill Comes rushing, rippling, gleam on gleam; The runnels rise, the shallows fill, And deep and happy flows the stream. The lazy sedges sway and swerve, The reedmace rocks its heavy head; Past many a bend, and bay, and curve, The river revels through its bed. And as it twists, and curls, and sweels, From out its leaping heart there come Sounds sweet as far-off village bells, Or swarming bee-hive's honeyed hum. Through quaking grass and waving weed Rises and falls the river-theme; Vibrating rush and trembling reed Are but the harpstrings of the stream. Once more the gold-ribbed gravel trills With quavering trebles clear and cool, Blent with the deeper note that fills The plunging weir and swirling pool. Bed, bank and channel, chant and chime, And fall and freshet, as they run, Though ignorant of tune and time, Sing in melodious unison. And so, if I be shaped to sing What kindly hearts are pleased to hear, And blissful were did Nature bring A rush of music all the year; Seasons there are it doth not flow, When Fancy's freshets will not come, The springs of song seem shrunk and low, And all my being dry and dumb. When suddenly from far-off source, Unseen, unsounding, deep, immense, Something, with swift resistless force, Flushes the heart and floods the sense; And as though Heaven and Earth did drain Into that deep mysterious spring, Brims all the windings of the brain; Then like replenished stream I sing. The will can not the stream control, Its currents are divinely sent, And thought and feeling, mind and soul, Are rapt in rhythmic ravishment. And on they flow, when once they start, To some ordained but unguessed goal, Through all the channels of the heart, And all the reaches of the soul. Then come the wingëd words that skim The surface of earth's discontent To soar up to the ether dim, Faint heard from far-off firmament. But, till the music stirs and swells Within my breast, forbearing be; Nor lightly waken slumbering bells Above a silent sanctuary!