Дублінці
A Little Cloud
Itcastashowerofkindlygoldendustontheuntidynursesanddecrepitoldmenwhodrowsedonthebenches;itflickereduponallthemovingfigures—onthechildrenwhoranscreamingalongthegravelpathsandoneveryonewhopassedthroughthegardens.Hewatchedthesceneandthoughtoflife;and(asalwayshappenedwhenhethoughtoflife)hebecamesad.Agentlemelancholytookpossessionofhim.Hefelthowuselessitwastostruggleagainstfortune,thisbeingtheburdenofwisdomwhichtheageshadbequeathedtohim.
Herememberedthebooksofpoetryuponhisshelvesathome.Hehadboughttheminhisbachelordaysandmanyanevening,ashesatinthelittleroomoffthehall,hehadbeentemptedtotakeonedownfromthebookshelfandreadoutsomethingtohiswife.Butshynesshadalwaysheldhimback;andsothebookshadremainedontheirshelves.Attimesherepeatedlinestohimselfandthisconsoledhim.
Whenhishourhadstruckhestoodupandtookleaveofhisdeskandofhisfellow-clerkspunctiliously.HeemergedfromunderthefeudalarchoftheKing’sInns,aneatmodestfigure,andwalkedswiftlydownHenriettaStreet.Thegoldensunsetwaswaningandtheairhadgrownsharp.Ahordeofgrimychildrenpopulatedthestreet.Theystoodorranintheroadwayorcrawledupthestepsbeforethegapingdoorsorsquattedlikemiceuponthethresholds.LittleChandlergavethemnothought.
