在富户茂盛的草坪中，在他种植的山岗的沙沙声中，生命洋溢着，没有野心的痛苦;雨水倾泻生命，直到水盆溢满，雨下得越多，就越高得令人晕眩，仿佛可以随心所欲地选择形状，从不屈从于机械的或卑躬屈膝的形状，听命于别人的召唤。只是梦，只是梦!然而，荷马不曾歌唱过，他不是发现，从生命的自我愉悦中，一定有超乎梦外的东西喷涌而出;虽然现在看来，它仿佛是一个奇妙的空贝壳，从富饶的暗流中抛掷出来，而不是一个喷泉，这象征着富人继承的荣耀。某个暴戾而又痛苦的人，某个被称为建筑师和艺术家的有权势的人，他们这些暴戾而又痛苦的人，可以在石头上刻下所有人日日夜夜渴望的甜蜜，那里从未有过的温柔;但当主人埋葬的老鼠可以玩。也许那座房子的曾孙，尽管有青铜和大理石，不过是一只老鼠。噢，如果孔雀在园中游逛，娇嫩的脚踩在古老的台地上，或者朱诺从瓮里出来，在冷漠的园神面前展露;哦，如果在平整的草坪和铺满砾石的道路上，穿着拖鞋的沉思在那里找到了安逸，童年是每一种感官的快乐，但我们的伟大却被我们的暴力夺去了呢? What if the glory of escutcheoned doors, And buildings that a haughtier age designed, The pacing to and fro on polished floors Amid great chambers and long galleries, lined With famous portraits of our ancestors; What if those things the greatest of mankind Consider most to magnify, or to bless, But take our greatness with our bitterness? II My House An ancient bridge, and a more ancient tower, A farmhouse that is sheltered by its wall, An acre of stony ground, Where the symbolic rose can break in flower, Old ragged elms, old thorns innumerable, The sound of the rain or sound Of every wind that blows; The stilted water-hen Crossing Stream again Scared by the splashing of a dozen cows; A winding stair, a chamber arched with stone, A grey stone fireplace with an open hearth, A candle and written page. Il Penseroso's Platonist toiled on In some like chamber, shadowing forth How the daemonic rage Imagined everything. Benighted travellers From markets and from fairs Have seen his midnight candle glimmering. Two men have founded here. A man-at-arms Gathered a score of horse and spent his days In this tumultuous spot, Where through long wars and sudden night alarms His dwinding score and he seemed castaways Forgetting and forgot; And I, that after me My bodily heirs may find, To exalt a lonely mind, Befitting emblems of adversity. III My Table Two heavy trestles, and a board Where Sato's gift, a changeless sword, By pen and paper lies, That it may moralise My days out of their aimlessness. A bit of an embroidered dress Covers its wooden sheath. Chaucer had not drawn breath When it was forged. In Sato's house, Curved like new moon, moon-luminous It lay five hundred years. Yet if no change appears No moon; only an aching heart Conceives a changeless work of art. Our learned men have urged That when and where 'twas forged A marvellous accomplishment, In painting or in pottery, went From father unto son And through the centuries ran And seemed unchanging like the sword. Soul's beauty being most adored, Men and their business took Me soul's unchanging look; For the most rich inheritor, Knowing that none could pass Heaven's door, That loved inferior art, Had such an aching heart That he, although a country's talk For silken clothes and stately walk. Had waking wits; it seemed Juno's peacock screamed. IV My Descendants Having inherited a vigorous mind From my old fathers, I must nourish dreams And leave a woman and a man behind As vigorous of mind, and yet it seems Life scarce can cast a fragrance on the wind, Scarce spread a glory to the morning beams, But the torn petals strew the garden plot; And there's but common greenness after that. And what if my descendants lose the flower Through natural declension of the soul, Through too much business with the passing hour, Through too much play, or marriage with a fool? May this laborious stair and this stark tower Become a roofless min that the owl May build in the cracked masonry and cry Her desolation to the desolate sky. The primum Mobile that fashioned us Has made the very owls in circles move; And I, that count myself most prosperous, Seeing that love and friendship are enough, For an old neighbour's frien