现在我们差不多安顿下来了，我要说出那些不能和我们一起吃饭的朋友的名字，在古老的塔楼的草皮火旁，聊到深夜，爬上狭窄的蜿蜒的楼梯去睡觉:发现被遗忘的真理的人，或者仅仅是我年轻时的伙伴，所有的人，所有的人今晚都在我的脑海里死去了。我们总是让新朋友遇见老朋友，如果任何一个朋友显得冷淡，我们都会受到伤害，在我们心中的感情中，有盐可以延长我们的智慧，争吵在头上被吹起;但没有一个我愿意带的朋友今夜能使我们争吵，因为所有进入我脑海的都已死亡。我首先想到的是莱昂内尔·约翰逊，他爱学习胜过爱人类。虽然对最坏的人彬彬有礼;他沉吟于神圣，直到他所学的所有希腊文和拉丁文似乎都是号角上的长鸣，使他的思想更接近了一点，他梦想着无限的圆满。下一个是约翰·辛格，那个爱发问的人，他将死的人选择了人间作为他的文字，他决不会在坟墓里安息，但他长途跋涉，来到了暮色降临的地方，在一片荒凉的石质之地，在暮色降临的地方，一个像他的心一样热情而单纯的民族。然后我想起了老乔治·波列克斯芬，在梅奥人熟知的肌肉发达的青年时代，在赛马会上或赛马场上驰骋，他本可以向我们展示纯种的马和健壮的人，尽管他们充满激情，是如何生活的。变得呆滞和沉思的他们是我多年的亲密伙伴。 A portion of my mind and life, as it were, And now their breathless faces seem to look Out of some old picture-book; I am accustomed to their lack of breath, But not that my dear friend's dear son, Our Sidney and our perfect man, Could share in that discourtesy of death. For all things the delighted eye now sees Were loved by him: the old storm-broken trees That cast their shadows upon road and bridge; The tower set on the stream's edge; The ford where drinking cattle make a stir Nightly, and startled by that sound The water-hen must change her ground; He might have been your heartiest welcomer. When with the Galway foxhounds he would ride From Castle Taylor to the Roxborough side Or Esserkelly plain, few kept his pace; At Mooneen he had leaped a place So perilous that half the astonished meet Had shut their eyes; and where was it He rode a race without a bit? And yet his mind outran the horses' feet. We dreamed that a great painter had been born To cold Clare rock and Galway rock and thorn, To that stern colour and that delicate line That are our secret discipline Wherein the gazing heart doubles her might. Soldier, scholar, horseman, he, And yet he had the intensity To have published all to be a world's delight. What other could so well have counselled us In all lovely intricacies of a house As he that practised or that understood All work in metal or in wood, In moulded plaster or in carven stone? Soldier, scholar, horseman, he, And all he did done perfectly As though he had but that one trade alone. Some burn damp faggots, others may consume The entire combustible world in one small room As though dried straw, and if we turn about The bare chimney is gone black out Because the work had finished in that flare. Soldier, scholar, horseman, he, As 'twere all life's epitome. What made us dream that he could comb grey hair? I had thought, seeing how bitter is that wind That shakes the shutter, to have brought to mind All those that manhood tried, or childhood loved Or boyish intellect approved, With some appropriatc commentary on each; Until imagination brought A fitter welcome; but a thought Of that late death took all my heart for speech.