好朋友，耐心点:让世界变得不正常?好吧，你能忍着这么大的痛苦跳起来吗?叹息也好，责骂也罢，争论也好，恳求也罢，你究竟做了些什么，不过是把你的半生浪费在无力的傻瓜与任凭你吹来吹去的风的斗争上罢了?呸，我厌倦了你对赠予的世界的悲愤，就像一个孩子因为没有面包做蛋糕而哭闹，因为玫瑰上有难看的刺，如果他不小心自己的手就会刺痛。啊，愚蠢的怨恨!你在说什么世界，说什么男人、女人和罪恶?哦，朋友，这一切都过去了，而上帝还在。上帝已经创造了一个他所喜悦的世界，当他愿意的时候，他就会使它更美好。现在就让他的意愿满足我们吧。不，安静，看，听。因为这个中午，这个夏天的中午，用一百种欢乐的声音回答说:“但要知足。”因为，瞧，我们躺在这长满青苔的小山上，品尝着掩蔽着的松树发出的生动的麝香，品尝着芬芳的花朵和甜美的温暖空气的芳香; feeling the uncadenced music of slow leaves, and ripples in the brook athwart its stones, and birds that call each other in the brakes with sudden questions and smooth long replies, the gossip of the incessant grasshoppers, and the contented hum of laden bees; we, knowing (with the easy restful eye that, whichsoever way it turns, is filled with unexacting beauty) this smooth sky, blue with our English placid silvery blue, mottled with little lazy clouds, this stretch of dappled wealds and green and saffron slopes, and near us these gnarled elm-trunks barred with gold, and ruddy pine-boles, where the slumbrous beams have slipped through the translucent leafy net to break the shimmering dimness of the wood; we, who, like licensed truants from light tasks which lightly can be banished out of mind, have all ourselves to give to idleness, were more unreasoning, if we make moan of miseries and toils and barrenness, than if we sitting at a feast told tales of famines and for the pity of them starved. Oh, life is good when, on such summer days, we linger in the dreamful paradise that lies at every door where so much space is left to garner in the languid air as grass may grow in and some verdurous tree, and some few yards of blueness and of clouds may stretch above, making immensity; when, lost out of our petty unit selves, the heart grows large in the grave trance of peace, and all things breathing, growing, are its kin, and all the fair and blossoming earth is home. And beauty is our lesson: for, look there, that exquisite curve and cluster of rich leaves, emerald and shadow, in that patch of sun, what is it but a nettle? And that knoll of woven green, where all fantastic grace of shaggy stems and lush and trailing shoots and all a thousand delicate varied tints, are mingled in a wanton symmetry, what is it but a thorn and bramble copse? And that far plain, on which, through all the day, change still grows lovelier and every cloud makes different softer dimness, every light an other-coloured glory, what is it? a desolate barren waste, marshland and moor. And in some other moment, when the rain spurts greyly downwards on the soddening fields, or the dank, autumn fog veils leaden skies, or the keen baleful east winds nip the bloom of frightened spring with bleak and parching chills, the waste, the thorns, the nettle, each would seem cursed with the unloveliness of evil things. So beauty comes and goes: yet beauty is a message out of Heaven; can it speak from evil things? I know not; but I know that waste and thorns and nettle are to-day teachers of Love, a prospect not to change, for use, against a fifty miles of corn. Can we tell good from evil you and I? Oh, if the men and women of to-day seem ill or good to us, why, what know we? to-morrow they, or those who follow them, will seem another way; and are they changed, or are the eyes that see them? Let them be; are we divine that we should judge and rule? And they are not the world by several selves but in a gathered whole, and if that whole drift heavenward or hellward God can see, not we, who, ants hived in our colonies, count the world loam or gravel, stocked with flowers or weeds or cabbages, as we shall find within our own small ranges, and (being wise and full of care for all the universe), wonder, and blame, and theorize, and plan, by the broad guide of our experiences! 'Twere a neat world if levelled by the ants; no ridges, no rough gaps, all fined and soft. But I will rather use my antish wits in smoothing just my cell an