睡袍的洋洋自得，阳光充足的椅子上的迟来的咖啡和橘子，地毯上一只凤头鹦鹉的绿色自由，混合在一起，驱散了古代祭祀的神圣静谧。她做了一点梦，她感到那古老的灾难的黑暗侵袭，就像水光间的平静变暗了。那刺鼻的橘色和鲜绿的翅膀，仿佛是死人的队伍，在宽阔的水面上蜿蜒而行，无声无息。白昼像宽阔的水，无声无息，静待她梦中的脚步走过，越过海洋，来到寂静的巴勒斯坦，血与坟墓的领地。她为什么要把她的恩赐给死人呢?如果神性只能在无声的阴影和梦境中出现，那神性又是什么?难道她不能在阳光的舒适中，在辛辣的果实和鲜绿的翅膀中，或者在地上的任何芬芳和美丽中，找到像对天堂的思念一样值得珍惜的东西吗?神必须活在她自己里面:雨的激情，雪的心境;孤独时的悲伤，或是森林开花时的奔放;秋夜潮湿道路上的阵阵情绪; All pleasures and all pains, remembering The bough of summer and the winter branch. These are the measure destined for her soul. 3 Jove in the clouds had his inhuman birth. No mother suckled him, no sweet land gave Large-mannered motions to his mythy mind. He moved among us, as a muttering king, Magnificent, would move among his hinds, Until our blood, commingling, virginal, With heaven, brought such requital to desire The very hinds discerned it, in a star. Shall our blood fail? Or shall it come to be The blood of paradise? And shall the earth Seem all of paradise that we shall know? The sky will be much friendlier then than now, A part of labor and a part of pain, And next in glory to enduring love, Not this dividing and indifferent blue. 4 She says, 'I am content when wakened birds, Before they fly, test the reality Of misty fields, by their sweet questionings; But when the birds are gone, and their warm fields Return no more, where, then, is paradise?' There is not any haunt of prophecy, Nor any old chimera of the grave, Neither the golden underground, nor isle Melodious, where spirits gat them home, Nor visionary south, nor cloudy palm Remote on heaven's hill, that has endured As April's green endures; or will endure Like her remembrance of awakened birds, Or her desire for June and evening, tipped By the consummation of the swallow's wings. 5 She says, 'But in contentment I still feel The need of some imperishable bliss.' Death is the mother of beauty; hence from her, Alone, shall come fulfillment to our dreams And our desires. Although she strews the leaves Of sure obliteration on our paths, The path sick sorrow took, the many paths Where triumph rang its brassy phrase, or love Whispered a little out of tenderness, She makes the willow shiver in the sun For maidens who were wont to sit and gaze Upon the grass, relinquished to their feet. She causes boys to pile new plums and pears On disregarded plate. The maidens taste And stray impassioned in the littering leaves. 6 Is there no change of death in paradise? Does ripe fruit never fall? Or do the boughs Hang always heavy in that perfect sky, Unchanging, yet so like our perishing earth, With rivers like our own that seek for seas They never find, the same receding shores That never touch with inarticulate pang? Why set pear upon those river-banks Or spice the shores with odors of the plum? Alas, that they should wear our colors there, The silken weavings of our afternoons, And pick the strings of our insipid lutes! Death is the mother of beauty, mystical, Within whose burning bosom we devise Our earthly mothers waiting, sleeplessly. 7 Supple and turbulent, a ring of men Shall chant in orgy on a summer morn Their boisterous devotion to the sun, Not as a god, but as a god might be, Naked among them, like a savage source. Their chant shall be a chant of paradise, Out of their blood, returning to the sky; And in their chant shall enter, voice by voice, The windy lake wherein their lord delights, The trees, like serafin, and echoing hills, That choir among themselves long afterward. They shall know well the heavenly fellowship Of men that perish and of summer morn. And whence they came and whither they shall go The dew upon their feel shall manifest. 8 She hears, upon that water without sound, A voice that cries, 'The tomb in Palestine Is not the porch of spirits lingering. It is the grave of Jesus, where he lay.' We live in an old chaos of the sun, Or old dependency of day and night,