他们睡在. . . .我蜷缩在地上，我醒着，我只有。你的梦高而冷，啊，女王，你的梦高而孤独。我们睡得太久，谁也难以赢得那白色的火焰，那长夜的哭泣;看不见的过路人;世界低低的叹息，带着渴望，带着渴望，致那不燃的火，致那没有热气的火，致那没有火焰的狂喜!……无奈的我躺下。你的守望者的脚，踏在我的四周。谣言和翅膀的光辉在我的头顶上，难以忍受的翅膀的光辉. . . . All the earth grows fire, White lips of desire Brushing cool on the forehead, croon slumbrous things. Earth fades; and the air is thrilled with ways, Dewy paths full of comfort. And radiant bands, The gracious presence of friendly hands, Help the blind one, the glad one, who stumbles and strays, Stretching wavering hands, up, up, through the praise Of a myriad silver trumpets, through cries, To all glory, to all gladness, to the infinite height, To the gracious, the unmoving, the mother eyes, And the laughter, and the lips, of light.