橡树上的猫头鹰皱着眉头，愤愤地抱怨他，说知更鸟的歌声妨碍了他的睡眠，妨碍了他的休息。“从北，从东，从南，从西，林地，麦田，玉米地，三叶草，一遍又一遍，一遍又一遍，五点，十点，十二点，七点，只有天空下知更鸟的歌声:我们怎么能睡觉?”“偷看!你吹着口哨，“嘘!”吱吱的叫声!吱吱的叫声!”哦，如果你愿意，就去窥视，如果它便宜，就去买;因为猫头鹰必须睡觉。你们是为名声歌唱吗，谁先唱呢。每天都是一样的，但最后一天是最糟糕的，夏天被愚蠢的红乳房的愚蠢爆发所诅咒，在白天，所有诚实的鸟儿都应该睡觉的时候，窥视和吱吱叫。 Lord, what a din! And so out of all reason. Have ye not heard that each thing hath its season? Night is to work in, night is for play-time; Good heavens, not day-time! A vulgar flaunt is the flaring day, The impudent, hot, unsparing day, That leaves not a stain nor a secret untold, -- Day the reporter, -- the gossip of old, -- Deformity's tease, -- man's common scold -- Poh! Shut the eyes, let the sense go numb When day down the eastern way has come. 'Tis clear as the moon (by the argument drawn From Design) that the world should retire at dawn. Day kills. The leaf and the laborer breathe Death in the sun, the cities seethe, The mortal black marshes bubble with heat And puff up pestilence; nothing is sweet Has to do with the sun: even virtue will taint (Philosophers say) and manhood grow faint In the lands where the villainous sun has sway Through the livelong drag of the dreadful day. What Eden but noon-light stares it tame, Shadowless, brazen, forsaken of shame? For the sun tells lies on the landscape, -- now Reports me the `what', unrelieved with the `how', -- As messengers lie, with the facts alone, Delivering the word and withholding the tone. But oh, the sweetness, and oh, the light Of the high-fastidious night! Oh, to awake with the wise old stars -- The cultured, the careful, the Chesterfield stars, That wink at the work-a-day fact of crime And shine so rich through the ruins of time That Baalbec is finer than London; oh, To sit on the bough that zigzags low By the woodland pool, And loudly laugh at man, the fool That vows to the vulgar sun; oh, rare, To wheel from the wood to the window where A day-worn sleeper is dreaming of care, And perch on the sill and straightly stare Through his visions; rare, to sail Aslant with the hill and a-curve with the vale, -- To flit down the shadow-shot-with-gleam, Betwixt hanging leaves and starlit stream, Hither, thither, to and fro, Silent, aimless, dayless, slow (`Aimless? Field-mice?' True, they're slain, But the night-philosophy hoots at pain, Grips, eats quick, and drops the bones In the water beneath the bough, nor moans At the death life feeds on). Robin, pray Come away, come away To the cultus of night. Abandon the day. Have more to think and have less to say. And CANNOT you walk now? Bah! don't hop! Stop! Look at the owl, scarce seen, scarce heard, O irritant, iterant, maddening bird!"