但愿有一天，当我终于从这可怕的异象中解脱出来时，我可以对赞同我的天使们欢呼雀跃!心灵那敲击得很清楚的琴键，不会因为弦松了、不可靠或断了而不响!使我流光的面容更加灿烂，使我卑微的哭泣化作花朵。哦，那么，痛苦的夜晚，人们将怎样用爱来纪念你呢?愁眉苦脸的姐妹们，我为什么没有更热切地跪着，更屈膝地跪着迎接你，更轻松地把自己交给你松散的头发呢?我们这些浪费时间的人，总是越过它们去判断它们的终结。它们只是我们冬天的树叶，我们忧郁的常绿植物，我们内心一年中的一个季节——不仅是季节，而且是地点、定居、营地、土壤和住所。痛苦之城的巷子是多么可悲，多么奇怪啊，在这由过多的喧闹造成的虚假的寂静中，一个从空虚的模子里挣脱出来的东西，在那镀金的喧闹声中，在那爆炸的纪念物中，大摇大摆地走着。噢，一个天使会把他们的安慰市场踩得多么彻底啊!这个市场以教堂为界，买来就可以使用，像星期天的邮局一样干净、令人失望、关门。然而，在更远的地方，总是有集市的涟漪边缘。 Seasaws of freedom! High-divers and jugglers of zeal! And the shooting-gallery's targets of bedizened happiness: targets tumbling in tinny contortions whenever some better marksman happens to hit one. From cheers to chance he goes staggering on, as booths that can please the most curious tastes are drumming and bawling. For adults ony there is something special to see: how money multiplies. Anatomy made amusing! Money's organs on view! Nothing concealed! Instructive, and guaranteed to increase fertility!... Oh, and then outside, behind the farthest billboard, pasted with posters for 'Deathless,' that bitter beer tasting quite sweet to drinkers, if they chew fresh diversions with it.. Behind the billboard, just in back of it, life is real. Children play, and lovers hold each other, -aside, earnestly, in the trampled grass, and dogs respond to nature. The youth continues onward; perhaps he is in love with a young Lament....he follows her into the meadows. She says: the way is long. We live out there.... Where? And the youth follows. He is touched by her gentle bearing. The shoulders, the neck, -perhaps she is of noble ancestry? Yet he leaves her, turns around, looks back and waves... What could come of it? She is a Lament. Only those who died young, in their first state of timeless serenity, while they are being weaned, follow her lovingly. She waits for girls and befriends them. Gently she shows them what she is wearing. Pearls of grief and the fine-spun veils of patience.- With youths she walks in silence. But there, where they live, in the valley, an elderly Lament responds to the youth as he asks:- We were once, she says, a great race, we Laments. Our fathers worked the mines up there in the mountains; sometimes among men you will find a piece of polished primeval pain, or a petrified slag from an ancient volcano. Yes, that came from there. Once we were rich.- And she leads him gently through the vast landscape of Lamentation, shows him the columns of temples, the ruins of strongholds from which long ago the princes of Lament wisely governed the country. Shows him the tall trees of tears, the fields of flowering sadness, (the living know them only as softest foliage); show him the beasts of mourning, grazing- and sometimes a startled bird, flying straight through their field of vision, far away traces the image of its solitary cry.- At evening she leads him to the graves of elders of the race of Lamentation, the sybils and prophets. With night approaching, they move more softly, and soon there looms ahead, bathed in moonlight, the sepulcher, that all-guarding ancient stone, Twin-brother to that on the Nile, the lofty Sphinx-: the silent chamber's countenance. They marvel at the regal head that has, forever silent, laid the features of manking upon the scales of the stars. His sight, still blinded by his early death, cannot grasp it. But the Sphinx's gaze frightens an owl from the rim of the double-crown. The bird, with slow down-strokes, brushes along the cheek, that with the roundest curve, and faintly inscribes on the new death-born hearing, as though on the double page of an opened book, the indescribable outline. And higher up, the stars. New ones. Stars of the land of pain. Slowly she names them: "There, look: the Rider ,the Staff,and that crowded constellation they call the the Garland of Fruit. Then farther up toward the Pole: Cradle, Way, the Burning Book, Doll, Window. A