你看见橱窗里摆放的那些瓷器了吗——用浅粉红色的玫瑰花蕾、小紫罗兰和常春藤花环装饰着的盘子和汤盘?看那图案是如何粘在闪闪发光的边缘上的!它们是艺术品——每一分钟都能看到和感受到，每一片花瓣都是虔诚地完成的。这样消耗你的血是失败吗?研究他们……你会看到，在瓷器里，如果你看得够仔细，一种游来游去的光与影，水晶里的鬼魂——我的大脑正在展开!你会看到我日复一日地坐在那里，靠近某扇窗户，有时向下看，看那些人……有时我妻子会过来和我说话…有时灰猫在我周围摇尾巴…金鱼在碗里游泳，在阳光下闪闪发光，膨胀到华丽的大小，吹出精致的泡泡，在深绿色的杂草中昏昏欲睡。 On rainy days, You'll see a gas-light shedding light behind me— An eye-shade round my forehead. There I sit, Twirling the tiny brushes in my paint-cups, Painting the pale pink rosebuds, minute violets, Exquisite wreaths of dark green ivy leaves. On this leaf, goes a dream I dreamed last night Of two soft-patterned toads—I thought them stones, Until they hopped! And then a great black spider,— Tarantula, perhaps, a hideous thing,— It crossed the room in one tremendous leap. Here,—as I coil the stems between two leaves,— It is as if, dwindling to atomy size, I cried the secret between two universes . . . A friend of mine took hasheesh once, and said Just as he fell asleep he had a dream,— Though with his eyes wide open,— And felt, or saw, or knew himself a part Of marvelous slowly-wreathing intricate patterns, Plane upon plane, depth upon coiling depth, Amazing leaves, folding one on another, Voluted grasses, twists and curves and spirals— All of it darkly moving . . . as for me, I need no hasheesh for it—it's too easy! Soon as I shut my eyes I set out walking In a monstrous jungle of monstrous pale pink roseleaves, Violets purple as death, dripping with water, And ivy-leaves as big as clouds above me. Here, in a simple pattern of separate violets— With scalloped edges gilded—here you have me Thinking of something else. My wife, you know,— There's something lacking—force, or will, or passion, I don't know what it is—and so, sometimes, When I am tired, or haven't slept three nights, Or it is cloudy, with low threat of rain, I get uneasy—just like poplar trees Ruffling their leaves—and I begin to think Of poor Pauline, so many years ago, And that delicious night. Where is she now? I meant to write—but she has moved, by this time, And then, besides, she might find out I'm married. Well, there is more—I'm getting old and timid— The years have gnawed my will. I've lost my nerve! I never strike out boldly as I used to— But sit here, painting violets, and remember That thrilling night. Photographers, she said, Asked her to pose for them; her eyes and forehead,— Dark brown eyes, and a smooth and pallid forehead,— Were thought so beautiful.—And so they were. Pauline . . . These violets are like words remembered . . . Darling! she whispered . . . Darling! . . . Darling! . . . Darling! Well, I suppose such days can come but once. Lord, how happy we were! . . . Here, if you only knew it, is a story— Here, in these leaves. I stopped my work to tell it, And then, when I had finished, went on thinking: A man I saw on a train . . . I was still a boy . . . Who killed himself by diving against a wall. Here is a recollection of my wife, When she was still my sweetheart, years ago. It's funny how things change,—just change, by growing, Without an effort . . . And here are trivial things,— A chill, an errand forgotten, a cut while shaving; A friend of mine who tells me he is married . . . Or is that last so trivial? Well, no matter! This is the sort of thing you'll see of me, If you look hard enough. This, in its way, Is a kind of fame. My life arranged before you In scrolls of leaves, rosebuds, violets, ivy, Clustered or wreathed on plate and cup and platter . . . Sometimes, I say, I'm just like John the Baptist— You have my head before you . . . on a platter.