“正如你们自己的一些诗人所说的”——(使徒行传十七:28)诗人克里昂(来自那些点缀着大海的小岛，百合花上的百合花，当光波口齿不清地说出“希腊”的时候，嘲笑他们的骄傲)——致暴政中的普罗图斯:祝你健康!他们现在还把你的信交给我。我读你的信，仿佛听见你说话。你厨房的主人仍在卸下一件又一件礼物;他们阻止我法院最后和桩在廊子的皇家日落,像一个想到你和一个白色she-slave集团分散的黑人和白人的奴隶(像chequer-work路面,我的国家的工作和礼物,现在覆盖着安定下来的鸽子),一个抒情的女人,在她的番红花sea-wools编成的背心,带着两个白色的手对我赞赏过滤器和杯你的嘴唇已经被虐之前它祝福我的。好主意，国王，你太慷慨了!因为人们会这样说，在这样一种爱的行为中，他的歌声给生命以欢乐，——你承认生命的价值;也不要说你的精神勉强能以正直的方式帮助生活，不足以以统治和其他方式帮助庸俗的灵魂。在日常构建你的塔,你——无论是在激烈和辛劳的突然痉挛,或通过暗会不明显的增长,或者当通用工作的中期与眼睛的良好赞誉爬给设计师带来欢乐,——曾未曾参与工作仅仅是工作的缘故,即使在你的心的吸引希望最终剩下最高,那里,所有建筑的骚动的,君第一个的男性可能看东:粗俗的看见你的塔,你看见太阳。为此，我承诺在你的节日里，向大海倾吐祭酒，让这个奴隶讲述你的命运，说出你的豪言壮语，描绘你高贵的面容——祝你在宙斯居住的最深处，在最终的平静之中。你信的第一个要求在这里满足了我。 It is as thou hast heard: in one short life I, Cleon, have effected all those things Thou wonderingly dost enumerate. That epos on thy hundred plates of gold Is mine,--and also mine the little chant, So sure to rise from every fishing-bark When, lights at prow, the seamen haul their net. The image of the sun-god on the phare, Men turn from the sun's self to see, is mine; The P?o'er-storied its whole length, As thou didst hear, with painting, is mine too. I know the true proportions of a man And woman also, not observed before; And I have written three books on the soul, Proving absurd all written hitherto, And putting us to ignorance again. For music,--why, I have combined the moods, Inventing one. In brief, all arts are mine; Thus much the people know and recognize, Throughout our seventeen islands. Marvel not. We of these latter days, with greater mind Than our forerunners, since more composite, Look not so great, beside their simple way, To a judge who only sees one way at once, One mind-point and no other at a time,-- Compares the small part of a man of us With some whole man of the heroic age, Great in his way--not ours, nor meant for ours. And ours is greater, had we skill to know: For, what we call this life of men on earth, This sequence of the soul's achievements here Being, as I find much reason to conceive, Intended to be viewed eventually As a great whole, not analyzed to parts, But each part having reference to all,-- How shall a certain part, pronounced complete, Endure effacement by another part? Was the thing done?--then, what's to do again? See, in the chequered pavement opposite, Suppose the artist made a perfect rhomb, And next a lozenge, then a trapezoid-- He did not overlay them, superimpose The new upon the old and blot it out, But laid them on a level in his work, Making at last a picture; there it lies. So, first the perfect separate forms were made, The portions of mankind; and after, so, Occurred the combination of the same. For where had been a progress, otherwise? Mankind, made up of all the single men,-- In such a synthesis the labour ends. Now mark me! those divine men of old time Have reached, thou sayest well, each at one point The outside verge that rounds our faculty; And where they reached, who can do more than reach? It takes but little water just to touch At some one point the inside of a sphere, And, as we turn the sphere, touch all the rest In due succession: but the finer air Which not so palpably nor obviously, Though no less universally, can touch The whole circumference of that emptied sphere, Fills it more fully than the water did; Holds thrice the