居室
于是一个泥水匠走上前来说，请给我们谈居室。
他回答说：
当你在城里盖一所房子之前，先在野外用你的想象盖一座凉亭。
因为你黄昏时有家可归，而你那更迷茫、更孤寂的漂泊的精魂，也有个归宿。
你的房屋是你的较大的躯壳。
他在阳光中发育，在夜的寂静中睡眠；而且不能无梦。
你的房屋不做梦么？不梦见离开城市，登山入林么？
我愿能把你们的房子聚握在手里，撒种似的把他们洒落在丛林中与绿野上。
愿山谷成为你们的街市，绿径成为你们的里巷，使你们在葡萄园中相寻相访的时候，衣袂上带着大地的芬芳。
但这个还一时做不到。
在你们祖宗的忧惧里，他们把你们聚集得太近了。这忧惧还要稍微延长。你们的城墙，也仍要把你们的家庭和你们的田地分开的。
告诉我罢，阿法利斯的民众呵，你们的房子里有什么？你们锁门是为守护什么呢？
你们有和平，不就是那表现好魄力的宁静和鼓励么？
你们有回忆，不就是那连跨你心峰的灿烂的弓桥么？
你们有美，不就是那把你的心从木石建筑上引到圣山的么？
告诉我，你们的房屋里有这些东西么？
或者你只有舒适和舒适的欲念，那诡秘的东西，以客人的身份混了进来渐作家人，终作主翁的么？
噫，他变成一个驯兽的人，用钩镰和鞭笞，使你较伟大的愿望变成傀儡。
他的手虽柔软如丝，他的心却是铁打的。
他催眠你，只须站在你的床侧，讥笑你肉体的尊严。
他戏弄你健全的感官，把它们塞放在蓟绒里，如同脆薄的杯盘。
真的，舒适之欲，杀害了你灵性的热情，又哂笑地在你的殡仪队中徐步。
但是你们这些太空的儿女，你们在静中不息，你们不应当被网罗，被驯养。
你们的房子不应当作个锚，却应当作个桅。
它不应当作一片遮掩伤痕的闪亮的薄皮，却应当作那保护眼睛的睫毛。
你不应当为穿门走户而敛翅，也不应当为恐触到屋顶而低头，也不应当为怕墙壁崩裂而停止呼吸。
你不应当住在那死人替活人筑造的坟墓里。
无论你的房屋是如何的壮丽与辉煌，也不应当使他隐住你的秘密，遮住你的愿望。
因为你里面的无穷性，是住在天宫里，那天宫是以晓烟为门户，以夜的静寂与歌曲为窗牖的。
09
On Houses
Then a mason came forth and said, "Speak to us of Houses."
And he answered and said:
Build of your imaginings a bower in the wilderness ere you build a house within the city walls.
For even as you have home-comings in your twilight, so has the wanderer in you, the ever distant and alone.
Your house is your larger body.
It grows in the sun and sleeps in the stillness of the night; and it is not dreamless. Does not your house dream? And dreaming, leave the city for grove or hilltop?
Would that I could gather your houses into my hand, and like a sower scatter them in forest and meadow.
Would the valleys were your streets, and the green paths your alleys, that you might seek one another through vineyards, and come with the fragrance of the earth in your garments.
But these things are not yet to be.
In their fear your forefathers gathered you too near together. And that fear shall endure a little longer. A little longer shall your city walls separate your hearths from your fields.
And tell me, people of Orphalese, what have you in these houses? And what is it you guard with fastened doors?
Have you peace, the quiet urge that reveals your power?
Have you remembrances, the glimmering arches that span the summits of the mind?
Have you beauty, that leads the heart from things fashioned of wood and stone to the holy mountain?
Tell me, have you these in your houses?
Or have you only comfort, and the lust for comfort, that stealthy thing that enters the house a guest, and becomes a host, and then a master?
Ay, and it becomes a tamer, and with hook and scourge makes puppets of your larger desires.
Though its hands are silken, its heart is of iron.
It lulls you to sleep only to stand by your bed and jeer at the dignity of the flesh.
It makes mock of your sound senses, and lays them in thistledown like fragile vessels.
Verily the lust for comfort murders the passion of the soul, and then walks grinning in the funeral.