[其中一人自言自语]…大地母亲啊，你心中有他的容身之处，他爱使你美丽的每一朵花和每一片叶，用繁复而细腻的诗句唱着对你的赞美，这里那里有一行诗，从一朵花到另一朵花，像一根枝干，五月的气息如此丰富。有些人认为手工比铸造或雕刻的东西更昂贵，如在Mycæne发现的那些装饰品。然而，大自然的自我是这样运作的;或是她借给林中画眉的什么小音符，慷慨地给予无尽的耐心。他生来就是艺术家，而不是工匠，这一点很少有人看到，许多人做梦也没想到。当克罗伊斯结婚，墨西纳斯去世，城市的宴会和表演也不再有气息时，他没有写赞美诗，他错过了给更轻浮的人蒙上金色的光芒——一个黄昏的诗人，孤独地摸索着，迟来了，在一个没有音乐和翅膀的鸟巢里。他的恩赐并不大;然而，在这个充斥着蹩脚的三重奏和温驯的朗多舞曲的时代，我们甚至连他那一点点的完美都无法保留。他至少有理想，虽然尚未实现;他在遥远的地方听到不朽的和声，就像今天冷冷地落在我们耳中。 The mighty Zolastic Movement now Engrosses us--a miasmatic breath Blown from the slums. We paint life as it is, The hideous side of it, with careful pains, Making a god of the dull Commonplace. For have we not the old gods overthrown And set up strangest idols? We would clip Imagination's wing and kill delight, Our sole art being to leave nothing out That renders art offensive. Not for us Madonnas leaning from their starry thrones Ineffable, nor any heaven-wrought dream Of sculptor or of poet; we prefer Such nightmare visions as in morbid brains Take shape and substance, thoughts that taint the air And make all life unlovely. Will it last? Beauty alone endures from age to age, From age to age endures, handmaid of God. Poets who walk with her on earth go hence Bearing a talisman. You bury one, With his hushed music, in some Potter's Field; The snows and rains blot out his very name, As he from life seems blotted; through Time's glass Slip the invisible and magic sands That mark the century, then falls a day The world is suddenly conscious of a flower, Imperishable, ever to be prized, Sprung from the mould of a forgotten grave. 'T is said the seeds wrapt up among the balms And hieroglyphics of Egyptian kings old strange vitality, and, planted, grow After the lapse of thrice a thousand years. Some day, perchance, some unregarded note Of our poor friend here--some sweet minor chord That failed to lure our more accustomed ear-- Way witch the fancy of an unborn age. Who knows, since seeds have such tenacity? Meanwhile he's dead, with scantiest laurel won And little of our Ninteenth Century gold. So, take him, Earth, and this his mortal part, With that shrewd alchemy thou hast, transmute To flower and leaf in thine unending springs!