。这英国的泰晤士河远比罗马神圣，那些钟声像突然涌来的海浪，冲过树林，带着草甸甜白的海葵的泡沫，点缀着蓝色的波浪，上帝更可能在那里，而不是隐藏在苍白的僧侣们所带的那颗晶莹的星星里!那些闪烁着紫罗兰光的蝴蝶，拿你的乳脂百合花作它们的亭子，是蒙蒙的，在灯心草摇曳的地方，一只懒懒的梭子鱼躺在阳光下，半闭着眼睛，——他是一个戴着宗教帽的老主教!看看那些华丽的鳞片，全是绿色和金色的。有人会说，风，树的不安分的囚徒，为帕尔·埃斯特里纳做得很好，伟大的主人的手在玛利亚风琴的琴键上弹奏着，在某个蓝宝石般的复活节清晨，教皇乘着红得像血或罪恶的高高的轿子，从他黑暗的屋子里被抬到阳台上，在铜门和拥挤的广场之上，那里的喷泉似乎在狂喜中向空中抛掷着他们的银枪，向东方和西方伸出软弱的手，徒劳地给不和平的土地带来和平，给不安的国家带来安宁。你那挥之不去的橘色晚霞，难道不比罗马最盛大的盛典还要美丽吗?真奇怪，一年前，我跪在一个红衣主教面前，他在埃斯奎林河对岸带着圣物，而现在，小麦地里那些普通的罂粟花却显得美了一倍。远处蓝绿色的豆田，随着最后的阵雨颤抖着，带来了比年轻的执事们挥舞着芳香的镶着宝石的香炉更甜美的香气，穿过这凉爽的夜晚，当灰色的牧师打开帘幕的神龛，用普通的玉米和葡萄做成上帝的身体。可怜的弗拉·乔凡尼在弥撒中嚎叫着，我们现在走调了，因为一只棕色的小鸟在头顶上歌唱，透过长长的凉爽的草地，我看到了那跳动的喉音，这是我曾经在星光闪烁的山丘上听到的，在鲜花点缀的阿卡迪，曾经在萨拉米斯白色新月形的沙滩与大海相遇的地方。 Sweet is the swallow twittering on the eaves At daybreak, when the mower whets his scythe, And stock-doves murmur, and the milkmaid leaves Her little lonely bed, and carols blithe To see the heavy-lowing cattle wait Stretching their huge and dripping mouths across the farmyard gate. And sweet the hops upon the Kentish leas, And sweet the wind that lifts the new-mown hay, And sweet the fretful swarms of grumbling bees That round and round the linden blossoms play; And sweet the heifer breathing in the stall, And the green bursting figs that hang upon the red-brick wall. And sweet to hear the cuckoo mock the spring While the last violet loiters by the well, And sweet to hear the shepherd Daphnis sing The song of Linus through a sunny dell Of warm Arcadia where the corn is gold And the slight lithe-limbed reapers dance about the wattled fold. And sweet with young Lycoris to recline In some Illyrian valley far away, Where canopied on herbs amaracine We too might waste the summer-trancèd day Matching our reeds in sportive rivalry, While far beneath us frets the troubled purple of the sea. But sweeter far if silver-sandalled foot Of some long-hidden God should ever tread The Nuneham meadows, if with reeded flute Pressed to his lips some Faun might raise his head By the green water-flags, ah! sweet indeed To see the heavenly herdsman call his white-fleeced flock to feed. Then sing to me thou tuneful chorister, Though what thou sing'st be thine own requiem! Tell me thy tale thou hapless chronicler Of thine own tragedies! do not contemn These unfamiliar haunts, this English field, For many a lovely coronal our northern isle can yield, Which Grecian meadows know not, many a rose, Which all day long in vales Æolian A lad might seek in vain for, overgrows Our hedges like a wanton courtezan Unthrifty of her beauty, lilies too Ilissus never mirrored star our streams, and cockles blue Dot the green wheat which, though they are the signs For swallows going south, would never spread Their azure tents between the Attic vines; Even that little weed of ragged red, Which bids the robin pipe, in Arcady Would be a trespasser, and many an unsung elegy Sleeps in the reeds that fringe our winding Thames Which to awake were sweeter ravishment Than ever Syrinx wept for, diadems Of brown bee-studded orchids which were meant For Cytheræa's brows are hidden here Unknown to Cytheræa, and by yonder pasturing steer There is a tiny yellow daffodil, The butterfly can see it from afar, Although one summer evening's dew could fill Its little cup twice over ere the star Had called the lazy shepherd to his fold And be no prodigal, each leaf is fl