Марсианские хроники

           Themoonsheldandfrozethem;thewindbeatslowlyaroundthem.

           "LordByron,"saidJeffSpender.

           "Lordwho?"Thecaptainturnedandregardedhim.

           "LordByron,anineteenth-centurypoet.HewroteapoemalongtimeagothatfitsthiscityandhowtheMartiansmustfeel,ifthere’sanythingleftofthemtofeel.ItmighthavebeenwrittenbythelastMartianpoet."

           Themenstoodmotionless,theirshadowsunderthem.

           Thecaptainsaid,"Howdoesthepoemgo,Spender?"

           Spendershifted,putouthishandtoremember,squintedsilentlyamoment;then,remembering,hisslowquietvoicerepeatedthewordsandthemenlistenedtoeverythinghesaid:

           "Sowe’llgonomorea-roving

           Solateintothenight,

           Thoughtheheartbestillasloving,

           Andthemoonbestillasbright."

           Thecitywasgrayandhighandmotionless.Themen’sfaceswereturnedinthelight.

           "Fortheswordoutwearsitssheath,

           Andthesoulwearsoutthebreast,

           Andtheheartmustpausetobreathe,

           Andloveitselfmustrest.

           Thoughthenightwasmadeforloving,

           Andthedayreturnstoosoon,

           Yetwe’llgonomorea-roving

           Bythelightofthemoon."

           WithoutawordtheEarthMenstoodinthecenterofthecity.Itwasaclearnight.Therewasnotasoundexceptthewind.Attheirfeetlayatilecourtworkedintotheshapesofancientanimalsandpeoples.Theylookeddownuponit.

           Biggsmadeasicknoiseinhisthroat.Hiseyesweredull.