是时候了(很久以前就是这样了)，我应该切断这条锁链——我不知道为什么要戴着它——永远!尽管我厌倦了我必须戴上的面具，但我仍然坚持着这条纽带，就像厌倦了一个平凡的工作和迟钝的盔甲已经磨练出她的魅力一样!啊!当她从怀里扔到这张桌子上的时候，她是多么可爱啊!(现在她战利品上的污渍还被昨天的雨水打湿了)这些玫瑰和百合花，还有——还有什么?让我看看!她一会儿就走了，但她高兴地转过身来，仿佛月光照亮了她那可爱的脸庞，她说:今天上课已经太晚了，她打算篡夺我的家庭教师的职位，至少今天上午是这样;我不再给她吃一顿“poluphloisboio thalasses”之类的大餐，而是研究那些我一无所知的草(她称它们为“情草”)、花蕾和花朵;如果“用我的力量”，我没有在那段时间里学会她所能教的一切，也许，用一首甜美的英语诗来感谢她，如果我不这样做，她把头发往后一甩，带着一种威胁的神气摇着她明亮的头，她会——哦!她将会是一个真正的撒拉逊奥马尔和一个非常有价值的荷马版本!但是这些花! I believe I could number as soon The shadowy thoughts of a last summer's noon, Or recall with their phases, each one after one, The clouds that came down to the death of the Sun, Cirrus, Stratus, or Nimbus, some evening last year, As unravel the web of one genus! Why, there, As they lie by my desk in that glistering heap, All tangled together like dreams in the sleep Of a bliss-fevered heart, I might turn them and turn Till night, in a puzzle of pleasure, and learn Not a fact, not a secret I prize half so much, As, how rough is this leaf when I think of her touch. There's one now blown yonder! what can be its name? A topaz wine-colored, the wine in a flame; And another that's hued like the pulp of a melon, But sprinkled all o'er as with seed-pearls of Ceylon; And a third! its white petals just clouded with pink! And a fourth, that blue star! and then this, too! I think If one brought me this moment an amethyst cup, From which, through a liquor of amber, looked up, With a glow as of eyes in their elfin-like lustre, Stones culled from all lands in a sunshiny cluster, From the ruby that burns in the sands of Mysore To the beryl of Daunia, with gems from the core Of the mountains of Persia (I talk like a boy In the flush of some new, and yet half-tasted joy); But I think if that cup and its jewels together Were placed by the side of this child of the weather (This one which she touched with her mouth, and let slip From her fingers by chance, as her exquisite lip, With a music befitting the language divine, Gave the roll of the Greek's multitudinous line), I should take -- not the gems -- but enough! let me shut In the blossom that woke it, my folly, and put Both away in my bosom -- there, in a heart-niche, One shall outlive the other -- is 't hard to tell which? In the name of all starry and beautiful things, What is it? the cross in the centre, these rings, And the petals that shoot in an intricate maze, From the disk which is lilac -- or purple? like rays In a blue Aureole! And so now will she wot, When I sit by her side with my brows in a knot, And praise her so calmly, or chide her perhaps, If her voice falter once in its musical lapse, As I've done, I confess, just to gaze at a flush In the white of her throat, or to watch the quick rush Of the tear she sheds smiling, as, drooping her curls O'er that book I keep shrined like a casket of pearls, She reads on in low tones of such tremulous sweetness, That (in spite of some faults) I am forced, in discreetness, To silence, lest mine, growing hoarse, should betray What I must not reveal -- will she guess now, I say, How, for all his grave looks, the stern, passionless Tutor, With more than the love of her youthfulest suitor, Is hiding somewhere in the shroud of his vest, By a heart that is beating wild wings in its nest, This flower, thrown aside in the sport of a minute, And which he holds dear as though folded within it Lay the germ of the bliss that he dreams of! Ah, me! It is hard to love thus, yet to seem and to be A thing for indifference, faint praise, or cold blame, When you long (by the right of deep passion, the claim, On the loved of the loving, at least to be heard) To take the white hand, and with glance, touch, and word, Burn your way to the heart! That her step on the stair? Be still thou fond flutterer! How little I care For your favorites, see! they are all of them, look! On the spot where they fell, and -- but here is your book!