从前有一座古城，被一种奇怪的狂乱所摧毁，许多天，他们从早到晚在拥挤的城镇里踱来踱去，整夜跳舞。我问原因，老人变得悲伤起来。他们指着一栋灰色的高楼，沙哑地回答:“进来吧，我的孩子，然后你就会看到这一切。”然而，这一切的欢乐，对满是指数和废话的我又有什么意义呢?但有个声音在低语:“很快就会成功的:乐队不可能永远演奏，女士们也不可能永远微笑，耐心地忍受一下这种令人讨厌的乐趣吧!”我的视线发生了变化——那是黑夜。我们穿过狂乱的人群，穿过一条小路。骏马狂奔，使我们胆战心惊，马车疾驰而过。在一间大理石大厅里，一条河奔流而过——一股半是薄纱半是布的活水。在这里，人们哀悼着破碎的花圈或扇子，却忍着愤怒;这里有一个人给一个口渴的集市(他的话半淹没在悦耳的雷声中)一些冰冻的面包(那里有很多)，每一勺都让人牙疼。有一个快乐的停顿，因为人类的力量不能忍受不停地跳舞;每个人都必须最终达到绝对的屈服。在这样的时刻，女士们学会了给那些过分要求她们的伴侣，一个平淡而又坚决的否定——摄影师喜欢这样。 There comes a welcome summons - hope revives, And fading eyes grow bright, and pulses quicken: Incessant pop the corks, and busy knives Dispense the tongue and chicken. Flushed with new life, the crowd flows back again: And all is tangled talk and mazy motion - Much like a waving field of golden grain, Or a tempestuous ocean. And thus they give the time, that Nature meant For peaceful sleep and meditative snores, To ceaseless din and mindless merriment And waste of shoes and floors. And One (we name him not) that flies the flowers, That dreads the dances, and that shuns the salads, They doom to pass in solitude the hours, Writing acrostic-ballads. How late it grows! The hour is surely past That should have warned us with its double knock? The twilight wanes, and morning comes at last - "Oh, Uncle, what's o'clock?" The Uncle gravely nods, and wisely winks. It MAY mean much, but how is one to know? He opens his mouth - yet out of it, methinks, No words of wisdom flow. II Empress of Art, for thee I twine This wreath with all too slender skill. Forgive my Muse each halting line, And for the deed accept the will! O day of tears! Whence comes this spectre grim, Parting, like Death's cold river, souls that love? Is not he bound to thee, as thou to him, By vows, unwhispered here, yet heard above? And still it lives, that keen and heavenward flame, Lives in his eye, and trembles in his tone: And these wild words of fury but proclaim A heart that beats for thee, for thee alone! But all is lost: that mighty mind o'erthrown, Like sweet bells jangled, piteous sight to see! "Doubt that the stars are fire," so runs his moan, "Doubt Truth herself, but not my love for thee!" A sadder vision yet: thine aged sire Shaming his hoary locks with treacherous wile! And dost thou now doubt Truth to be a liar? And wilt thou die, that hast forgot to smile? Nay, get thee hence! Leave all thy winsome ways And the faint fragrance of thy scattered flowers: In holy silence wait the appointed days, And weep away the leaden-footed hours. III. The air is bright with hues of light And rich with laughter and with singing: Young hearts beat high in ecstasy, And banners wave, and bells are ringing: But silence falls with fading day, And there's an end to mirth and play. Ah, well-a-day Rest your old bones, ye wrinkled crones! The kettle sings, the firelight dances. Deep be it quaffed, the magic draught That fills the soul with golden fancies! For Youth and Pleasance will not stay, And ye are withered, worn, and gray. Ah, well-a-day! O fair cold face! O form of grace, For human passion madly yearning! O weary air of dumb despair, From marble won, to marble turning! "Leave us not thus!" we fondly pray. "We cannot let thee pass away!" Ah, well-a-day! IV. My First is singular at best: More plural is my Second: My Third is far the pluralest - So plural-plural, I protest It scarcely can be reckoned! My First is followed by a bird: My Second by believers In magic art: my simple Third Follows, too often, hopes absurd And plausible deceivers. My First to get at wisdom tries - A failure melanch