前奏曲。一、妻子的悲剧男人一定会高兴;惟有讨女人喜悦的，才是女人所喜悦的。她把她最好的东西投下去，把她自己投下去。多少次，她毫无意义地轻浮，把她的心束缚成冰柱或奇想，她的每一句急躁的话都激起了别人，不是她，而是他;而她，太温柔了，连善意的回答都不能迫使他忏悔，她在一旁等待着，期待着他的悔恨，在她怜悯的眼神里带着宽恕;如果他有一次因为羞愧而受到压迫，她说了一句安慰的话，她就靠在他的胸前哭泣，似乎认为罪过是她的;只要他的爱人还活着，还能看见她的魅力，无论何时，她都是他的妻子，全身心地投入他的怀抱;她以永不疲倦的爱去爱;当她孤独地爱着的时候，由于强烈的责任，爱越长越高，就像石头周围的草越长越高。 II Common Graces Is nature in thee too spiritless, Ignoble, impotent, and dead, To prize her love and loveliness The more for being thy daily bread? And art thou one of that vile crew Which see no splendour in the sun, Praising alone the good that's new, Or over, or not yet begun? And has it dawn'd on thy dull wits That love warms many as soft a nest, That, though swathed round with benefits, Thou art not singularly blest? And fail thy thanks for gifts divine, The common food of many a heart, Because they are not only thine? Beware lest in the end thou art Cast for thy pride forth from the fold, Too good to feel the common grace Of blissful myriads who behold For evermore the Father's face. III The Zest of Life Give thanks. It is not time misspent; Worst fare this betters, and the best, Wanting this natural condiment, Breeds crudeness, and will not digest. The grateful love the Giver's law; But those who eat, and look no higher, From sin or doubtful sanction draw The biting sauce their feasts require. Give thanks for nought, if you've no more, And, having all things, do not doubt That nought, with thanks, is blest before Whate'er the world can give, without. IV Fool and Wise Endow the fool with sun and moon, Being his, he holds them mean and low; But to the wise a little boon Is great, because the giver's so. Sahara. I I stood by Honor and the Dean, They seated in the London train. A month from her! yet this had been, Ere now, without such bitter pain. But neighbourhood makes parting light, And distance remedy has none; Alone, she near, I felt as might A blind man sitting in the sun; She near, all for the time was well; Hope's self, when we were far apart, With lonely feeling, like the smell Of heath on mountains, fill'd my heart. To see her seem'd delight's full scope, And her kind smile, so clear of care, Ev'n then, though darkening all my hope, Gilded the cloud of my despair. II She had forgot to bring a book. I lent one; blamed the print for old; And did not tell her that she took A Petrarch worth its weight in gold. I hoped she'd lose it; for my love Was grown so dainty, high, and nice, It prized no luxury above The sense of fruitless sacrifice. III The bell rang, and, with shrieks like death, Link catching link, the long array, With ponderous pulse and fiery breath, Proud of its burthen, swept away; And through the lingering crowd I broke, Sought the hill-side, and thence, heart-sick, Beheld, far off, the little smoke Along the landscape kindling quick. IV What should I do, where should I go, Now she was gone, my love! for mine She was, whatever here below Cross'd or usurp'd my right divine. Life, without her, was vain and gross, The glory from the world was gone, And on the gardens of the Close As on Sahara shone the sun. Oppress'd with her departed grace, My thoughts on ill surmises fed; The harmful influence of the place She went to fill'd my soul with dread. She, mixing with the people there, Might come back alter'd, having caught The foolish, fashionable air Of knowing all, and feeling nought. Or, giddy with her beauty's praise, She'd scorn our simple country life, Its wholesome nights and tranquil days, And would not deign to be my Wife. `My Wife,? `my Wife,? ah, tenderest word! How oft, as fearful she might hear, Whispering that name of `Wife,? I heard The chiming of the inmost sphere. V I pass'd the home of my regret. The clock was striking in the hall, And one sad window open yet, Although the dews began to fall. Ah, distance show'd her beauty's scope! How light of heart and innocent That loveliness which sicken'd hope And wore the world for ornament! How perfectly her life was framed; And,