他，在上面的房间，变老和疲惫，她，在下面的房间——他的地板她的天花板——追求他们各自的梦想。他打开灯，脸朝下倒在床上，哈哈大笑. . . .她，站在窗边，对着星光灿烂的夜晚微笑，他的表——同样的，他已经听到了这些年代的循环——在他的枕头下，每秒钟都疲倦地报时。壁炉架上的钟敲了九下。夜色渐深。她听到头顶上沉闷的脚步声。世界在旋转. . . .新的星星升起闪耀。他的青春——在遥远的地方——他看见它明亮地走在金色的云里. . . .翅膀在它周围闪烁. . . .黑暗用巨大的墙围住它。年老——离她的死亡很远——有什么关系吗? Down the smooth purple night a streaked star falls. She hears slow steps in the street—they chime like music; They climb to her heart, they break and flower in beauty, Along her veins they glisten and ring and burn. . . . He hears his own slow steps tread down to silence. Far off they pass. He knows they will never return. Far off—on a smooth dark road—he hears them faintly. The road, like a sombre river, quietly flowing, Moves among murmurous walls. A deeper breath Swells them to sound: he hears his steps more clearly. And death seems nearer to him: or he to death. What's death?—She smiles. The cool stone hurts her elbows. The last of the rain-drops gather and fall from elm-boughs, She sees them glisten and break. The arc-lamp sings, The new leaves dip in the warm wet air and fragrance. A sparrow whirs to the eaves, and shakes his wings. What's death—what's death? The spring returns like music, The trees are like dark lovers who dream in starlight, The soft grey clouds go over the stars like dreams. The cool stone wounds her arms to pain, to pleasure. Under the lamp a circle of wet street gleams. . . . And death seems far away, a thing of roses, A golden portal, where golden music closes, Death seems far away: And spring returns, the countless singing of lovers, And spring returns to stay. . . . He, in the room above, grown old and tired, Flings himself on the bed, face down, in laughter, And clenches his hands, and remembers, and desires to die. And she, by the window, smiles at a night of starlight. . . . The soft grey clouds go slowly across the sky.