“啊，你看过雪莱的真面目吗?”——褐变。“雪莱吗?“哦，是的，那时我经常见到他，”老人说。一个干巴巴的微笑使他的脸上布满了皱纹。“这是一首伟大的诗!”那是勃朗宁的作品!雪莱吗?雪莱平原?我记得最清楚的一段时光是这样的——一层薄薄的泥淖沿着布满车辙的道路爬着，所有的树都被冷雨所侵袭，雨猛烈地下了一会儿，然后停了下来，慢慢地落下，像一层灰色的雾笼罩着整个学校。 The walks were like blurred glass. The buildings reeked with vapor, black and harsh Against the deepening darkness of the sky; And each lamp was a hazy yellow moon, Filling the space about with golden motes, And making all things larger than they were. One yellow halo hung above a door, That gave on a black passage. Round about Struggled a howling crowd of boys, pell-mell, Pushing and jostling like a stormy sea, With shouting faces, turned a pasty white By the strange light, for foam. They all had clods, Or slimy balls of mud. A few gripped stones. And there, his back against the battered door, His pile of books scattered about his feet, Stood Shelley while two others held him fast, And the clods beat upon him. `Shelley! Shelley!' The high shouts rang through all the corridors, `Shelley! Mad Shelley! Come along and help!' And all the crowd dug madly at the earth, Scratching and clawing at the streaming mud, And fouled each other and themselves. And still Shelley stood up. His eyes were like a flame Set in some white, still room; for all his face Was white, a whiteness like no human color, But white and dreadful as consuming fire. His hands shook now and then, like slender cords Which bear too heavy weights. He did not speak. So I saw Shelley plain." "And you?" I said. "I? I threw straighter than the most of them, And had firm clods. I hit him -- well, at least Thrice in the face. He made good sport that night."