火车!十二点钟去天堂。快点，不然它会爬走的。在乡下每个人都是聪明的:我们只有在星期六才能聪明。你在那儿等着呢，友好的小房子，那些是你的烟囱，和你在一起，周围是老树和漫步的奶牛，透过你所有的窗户凝视着绿色。你朴实的地板在为我们的脚步而吱吱作响;微笑的茶壶，心满意足的壶嘴，想着沸腾的水，面包渴望黄油。所有的手都伸出来迎接我们，柔软的毯子似乎在咕噜咕噜地哼唱:“躺在我们身上，做梦吧。”钥匙会结结巴巴地响，门会回答;门厅醒了，打哈欠，微笑;迟钝的楼梯会在我们脚边咕咕叫，桌子会叫道:“把我的东西拿来; I am bare.' A clatter! something in the attic falls, A ghost has lifted up his robes and fled. Then silence very slowly lifts his head. The starling with impatient screech has flown The chimney, and is watching from the tree. They thought us gone for ever: mouse alone Stops in the middle of the floor to see. Now all you idle things, resume your toil. Hearth, put your flames on. Sulky kettle, boil. III Contented evening; comfortable joys; The snoozing fire, and all the fields are still: Tranquil delight, no purpose, and no noise -- Unless the slow wind flowing round the hill. 'Murry' (the kettle) dozes; little mouse Is rambling prudently about the floor. There's lovely conversation in this house: Words become princes that were slaves before. What a sweet atmosphere for you and me The people that have been here left behind. . . . Oh, but I fear it may turn out to be Built of a dream, erected in the mind: So if we speak too loud, we may awaken To find it vanished, and ourselves mistaken. IV Lift up the curtain carefully. All the trees Stand in the dark like drowsy sentinels. The oak is talkative to-night; he tells The little bushes crowding at his knees That formidable, hard, voluminous History of growth from acord into age. They titter like school-children; they arouse Their comrades, who exclaim: ' He is very sage. ' Look how the moon is staring through that cloud, Laying and lifting idle streaks of light. O hark! was that the monstrous wind, so loud And sudden, prowling always through the night? Let down the shaking curtain. They are queer, Those foreigners. They and we live so near. V Come, come to bed. The shadows move about, And some one seems to overhear our talk. The fire is low; the candles flicker out; The ghosts of former tenants want to walk. Already they are shuffling through the gloom. I felt on old man touch my shoulder-blade; Once he was married here; they love this room, He and his woman and the child they made. Dead, dead, they are, yet some familiar sound, Creeping along the brink of happy life, Revives their memory from under ground -- The farmer and his troublesome old wife. Let us be going: as we climb the stairs, They'll sit down in our warm half-empty chairs. VI Morning! Wake up! Awaken! All the boughs Are rippling on the air across the green. The youngest birds are singing to the house. Blood of the world! -- and is the country clean? Disturb the precinct. Cool it with a shout. Sing as you trundle down to light the fire. Turn the encumbering shadows tumbling out, And fill the chambers with a new desire. Life is no good, unless the morning brings White happiness and quick delight of day. These half-inanamate domestic things Must all be useful, or must go away. Coffee, be fragrant. Porridge in my plate, Increase the vigour to fulfil my fate. VII The fresh air moves like water round a boat. The white clouds wander. Let us wander too. The whining, wavering plover flap and float. That crow is flying after that cuckoo. Look! Look! . . . They're gone. What are the great trees calling? Just come a little farther, by that edge Of green, to where the stormy ploughland, falling Wave upon wave, is lapping to the hedge. Oh, what a lovely bank! Give me your hand. Lie down and press your heart against the ground. Let us both listen till we understand, Each through the other, every natural sound. . . . I can't hear anything to-day, can you, But, far and near: ' Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Cuckoo! ' ? VIII The everlasting grass -- how bright, how cool! The day has gone too suddenly, too soon. There's something white and shiny in that pool -- Throw in a stone, and you will hit the moon. Listen, the church-bell ringing! Do not say We must go back to-morrow to our work. We'll tell them we are dead: we d