Somewhere there is a simple life and a world,
Transparent, warm and joyful. . .
There at evening a neighbor talks with a
Across the fence, and only the bees can
This most tender murmuring of all.
But we live ceremoniously and with
And we observe the rites of our bitter meetings,
When suddenly the reckless
Breaks off a sentence just begun — But not for anything would we exchange this
Granite city of fame and calamity,
The wide rivers of glistening ice,
The sunless, gloomy gardens,
And, barely audible, the Muse's voice.
