《不可思议的悲剧和喜剧》。太阳落山了，半边空气都是灰蒙蒙的暮色;但在那间整天拉着窗帘的屋子里，暮色是一片朦胧，乍一看，寂静如死，空寂如空;但确实充满了微妙的悸动，无数下层生命的脉搏和呼吸。苍蝇在它们突然而急匆匆的路途中，困惑地飞着，因为白天的光已经撞在窗帘上，现在它们像冬天一样羞愧地睡着了;灵巧的老鼠也睡着了，它们被连夜的喧闹声弄得疲惫不堪;但是坚硬的甲虫在寒冷的壁炉和光秃秃的地板上爬来爬去。就这样，在整个黄昏的时刻，那隐约低语的寂静和休息在那里沉思;在它的力量之下，生命的悸动压抑着它的悸动，直到细声的镜子叹息，我已被尘土和潮湿弄得模糊不清，晴朗的白昼早已逝去，长久以来，没有火光，也没有灯光。窗帘低声说:我们身上有变化，或好或坏; Behind me and before is black As when those human things lie still: But I have seen the darkness grow As grows the daylight every morn; Have felt out there long shine and glow, In here long chilly dusk forlorn. V The cupboard grumbled with a groan, Each new day worse starvation brings: Since he came here I have not known Or sweets or cates or wholesome things: But now! a pinch of meal, a crust, Throughout the week is all I get. It am so empty; it is just As when they said we were to let. VI What is become, then, of our Man? The petulant old glass exclaimed; If all this time he slumber can, He really ought to be ashamed. I wish we had our Girl again, So gay and busy, bright and fair: The girls are better than these men, Who only for their dull selves care. VII It is so many hours ago-- The lamp and fire were both alight-- I saw him pacing to and fro, Perturbing restlessly the night. His face was pale to give one fear, His eyes when lifted looked too bright; He muttered; what, I could not hear: Bad words though; something was not right VIII The table said, He wrote so long That I grew weary of his weight; The pen kept up a cricket song, It ran and ran at such a rate: And in the longer pauses he With both his folded arms downpressed And stared as one who does not see, Or sank his head upon his breast. IX The fire-grate said, I am as cold As if I never had a blaze; The few dead cinders here I hold, I held unburned for days and days. Last night he made them flare; but still What good did all his writing do? Among my ashes curl and thrill Thin ghosts of all those papers too. X The table answered, Not quite all; He saved and folded up one sheet, And sealed it fast, and let it fall; And here it lies now white and neat. Whereon the letter's whisper came, My writing is closed up too well; Outside there's not a single name, And who should read me I can't tell. XI The mirror sneered with scornful spite, (That ancient crack which spoiled her looks Had marred her temper), Write and write! And read those stupid, worn-out books! That's all he does, read, write, and read, And smoke that nasty pipe which stinks: He never takes the slightest heed How any of us feels or thinks. XII But Lucy fifty times a day Would come and smile here in my face, Adjust a tress that curled astray, Or tie a ribbon with more grace: She looked so young and fresh and fair, She blushed with such a charming bloom, It did one good to see her there, And brightened all things in the room. XIII She did not sit hours stark and dumb As pale as moonshine by the lamp; To lie in bed when day was come, And leave us curtained chill and damp. She slept away the dreary dark, And rose to greet the pleasant morn; And sang as gaily as a lark While busy as the flies sun-born. XIV And how she loved us every one; And dusted this and mended that, With trills and laughs and freaks of fun, And tender scoldings in her chat ! And then her bird, that sang as shrill As she sang sweet; her darling flowers That grew there in the window-sill, Where she would sit at work for hours. XV It was not much she ever wrote; Her fingers had good work to do; Say, once a week a pretty note; And very long it took her too. And little more she read, I wis; Just now and then a pictured sheet, Besides those letters she would kiss And croon for hours, they were so sweet. XVI She had her friends too, blithe young girls, Who whispered, babbled, laughed, caressed, And romped and d