По эту сторону рая

           Onenightwhiletheheat,overpoweringandenervating,pouredintothewindowsofhisroomhestruggledforseveralhoursinavagueefforttoimmortalizethepoignancyofthattime.

           TheFebruarystreets,wind-washedbynight,blowfullofstrange

           half-intermittentdamps,bearingonwastedwalksinshiningsight

           wetsnowplashedintogleamsunderthelamps,likegoldenoil

           fromsomedivinemachine,inanhourofthawandstars.

           Strangedamps—fulloftheeyesofmanymen,crowdedwithlife

           borneinuponalull....Oh,Iwasyoung,forIcouldturn

           againtoyou,mostfiniteandmostbeautiful,andtastethestuff

           ofhalf-remembereddreams,sweetandnewonyourmouth.

           ...Therewasatanginginthemidnightair—silencewasdeadand

           soundnotyetawoken—Lifecrackedlikeice!—onebrilliantnote

           andthere,radiantandpale,youstood...andspringhadbroken.

           (Theicicleswereshortupontheroofsandthechangelingcity

           swooned.)

           Ourthoughtswerefrostymistalongtheeaves;ourtwoghosts

           kissed,highonthelong,mazedwires—eeriehalf-laughterechoes

           hereandleavesonlyafatuoussighforyoungdesires;regrethas

           followedafterthingssheloved,leavingthegreathusk.

           ANOTHERENDING

           Inmid-AugustcamealetterfromMonsignorDarcy,whohadevidentlyjuststumbledonhisaddress:

           MYDEARBOY:—

           Yourlastletterwasquiteenoughtomakemeworryaboutyou.Itwasnotabitlikeyourself.