嗯，就像你说的，我们生活在狭小的视野里:我们成群结队地移动，我们流动，我们在一起交谈，看到那么多的眼睛、手和脸，那么多的嘴，所有这些都有秘密的含义，但我们对它们却知之甚少;只看到我们意识中小小的明亮的圈子，圈子之外是黑暗。有些我们知道-或者我们认为我们知道…有一次，在一个阳光明媚的早晨，我走在走廊里，想找到一扇门:我找到了一扇，试了试，打开了，在一个宽敞的房间里，灯火通明，一百个人在演奏音乐，响亮，迅速，而一个高大的女人在他们上面发出她的声音在强大的甜蜜. . . .然后关上门，我听到它在我身后消失，消失成耳语，-和以前一样走在安静的走廊里。透过那扇开着的门，就这样一瞥，就是我们对那些我们称之为朋友. . . .的人的全部了解我们听到突然响起的音乐，看到井然有序的思想在演奏——然后又是一片寂静。音乐，我们认为，(就像我们自己)永远在那里，在紧闭的门后，-它继续在我们离开后，所以，我们猜测，它在我们来之前播放…你知道我什么，我知道你什么?……很少. . . .我们把这些门开着，只为了演奏选定的乐章:这一段，(我是这么想的，但这只是猜测)会使他高兴，——这是他想象的曲调，——虽然比他的更精彩; and while he likes it He will be piqued . . . He looks at me bewildered And thinks (to judge from self—this too is guesswork) The music strangely subtle, deep in meaning, Perplexed with implications; he suspects me Of hidden riches, unexpected wisdom. . . . Or else I let him hear a lyric passage,— Simple and clear; and all the while he listens I make pretence to think my doors are closed. This too bewilders him. He eyes me sidelong Wondering 'Is he such a fool as this? Or only mocking?'—There I let it end. . . . Sometimes, of course, and when we least suspect it— When we pursue our thoughts with too much passion, Talking with too great zeal—our doors fly open Without intention; and the hungry watcher Stares at the feast, carries away our secrets, And laughs. . . .but this, for many counts, is seldom. And for the most part we vouchsafe our friends, Our lovers too, only such few clear notes As we shall deem them likely to admire: 'Praise me for this' we say, or 'laugh at this,' Or 'marvel at my candor'. . . .all the while Withholding what's most precious to ourselves,— Some sinister depth of lust or fear or hatred, The sombre note that gives the chord its power; Or a white loveliness—if such we know— Too much like fire to speak of without shame. Well, this being so, and we who know it being So curious about those well-locked houses, The minds of those we know,—to enter softly, And steal from floor to floor up shadowy stairways, From room to quiet room, from wall to wall, Breathing deliberately the very air, Pressing our hands and nerves against warm darkness To learn what ghosts are there,— Suppose for once I set my doors wide open And bid you in. . . .Suppose I try to tell you The secrets of this house, and how I live here; Suppose I tell you who I am, in fact. . . . Deceiving you—as far as I may know it— Only so much as I deceive myself. If you are clever you already see me As one who moves forever in a cloud Of warm bright vanity: a luminous cloud Which falls on all things with a quivering magic, Changing such outlines as a light may change, Brightening what lies dark to me, concealing Those things that will not change . . . I walk sustained In a world of things that flatter me: a sky Just as I would have had it; trees and grass Just as I would have shaped and colored them; Pigeons and clouds and sun and whirling shadows, And stars that brightening climb through mist at nightfall,— In some deep way I am aware these praise me: Where they are beautiful, or hint of beauty, They point, somehow, to me. . . .This water says,— Shimmering at the sky, or undulating In broken gleaming parodies of clouds, Rippled in blue, or sending from cool depths To meet the falling leaf the leaf's clear image,— This water says, there is some secret in you Akin to my clear beauty, silently responsive To all that circles you. This bare tree says,— Austere and stark and leafless, split with frost, Resonant in the wind, with rigid branches Flung out against the sky,—this tall tree says, There is some cold austerity in you, A frozen strength, with long roots gnarled on rocks, Fertile and deep; you bide your time, are patient, Serene in silence, bare to outward see