The unremittingly gloomy weather makes everything in the world cheerless， and the scene of utter desolation adds to human’s grief. Ravens are howling all the time as if the doomsday is drawing nearer and nearer. Frustrated， they try to get an outlet to their pent-up feelings. Suddenly， the howling stops and silence prevails. It seems that the ravens begin to pray and mourn for your pass. Still the strong winds outside the window are blowing unbridled， showing that everything in the nature has a grudge against the world.
　　This is the third time that I have read you. Sitting by the windows， I look into the distance， but I find no vestiges of your presence. The trees and the windows are rusting in the wind to sing you an elegy.
　　There is no defense against a pure and noble spirit， and this time I cry， and very hard， as if I could make up for all the years that I didn’t cry.
　　I am about to fold the book when a dried camellia flies away， which is pale blue， very transparent， still with thin fine veins. Carefully I pick it up and hold it in the palm of my hand. Suddenly， a puff of wind brought it away without any trace， leaving me alone. I have lost you， and now I lost the camellia that I have cherished for three years. You are just like the camellia and could never escape from the destiny of withering.
　　Desperate and helpless， I felt as if my heart was sucked down into a deep whirlpool， and I cowered in the corner， clasping my knees with my arms. Tears clouded my eyes once again.
　　Once I wept for Lin Daiyu. ‘Flowers fade and fall and fly about up in the sky， but who pities the loss of your fragrance when you die？ Once beauty is carried to its very tomb， both beauty and flowers perish known to none.’ If I thought I had cried up all my tears， because the Song of the Burial of Flowers had wrung all the moisture from my body that would be transformed into tears， I was woefully mistaken.
　　You are pretty women； but though the life of you makes sensation enough， your death makes very little. They are suns which set as they rose， unobserved. Few recollections of you are exchanged， and life goes on as if the incident had never occurred， without so much as a tear.
　　Suddenly， I remembered a saying， ‘women are like the flowers’. Those pretty women are like those beautiful flowers. Your delicate beauty makes people feel you are the miracle of life. However， even the Goddess envies your beauty and makes you a fugitive flower. Then， I heard sad song seemed rising beyond pavilions. Was it the souls of flowers that were singing？ 　　I don’t know that night， in extreme sadness， what forced me into a dream. The only thing that I was aware of was that I gave free outlet to my thoughts and my tears.
　　Standing in the Champs-elysees， I was waiting for you. You were walking toward me. Elegantly dressed， you wore a muslin dress with many flowers， and Indian shawl embroidered at the corners with gold and silk flowers， a straw-hat， a single bracelet， a heavy gold chain， and a bouquet of camellias in your hand.
　　Although we were so close， I still could not figure out your face. “Why don’t you show me your face？” I asked， with my sound reverberating in the air， no response.
　　I was so small in face of you， and I would give ten years of my life to weep at your feet for an hour. I have read the book Armand sent to you. I could remember his writing clearly， “Manon to Marguerite， Humility.” Manon died in the desert， it is true， but in the arms of the man who loved her with the whole energy of his soul； who， when she was dead， dug a grave for her， and watered it with his tears， and buried his heart in it； while you， a sinner like her， and converted like her， had died in a sumptuous bed， but in that desert of the heart， a more barren， a vaster， a more pitiless desert than that in which Manon had found her last resting-place.
　　I know， I know your sorrows. “It is always difficult to console a sorrow that is unknown to one.” But I do know， and still don’t know how to caress you or Armand， who has several times made a desperate effort to restrain his tears until the loss of his body balance.
　　All of a sudden， you turned around. I saw your retreating figure integrate with the boundless darkness. The sunlight pierced through my window and came to me all over. I realized it was a dream， a dream without your haggard face. I wish to have two wings under my arms to fly， after you unto the farthest end of the sky.
　　Let me offer this message to your soul in heaven as a token of my ever lingering love for you despite our separation.
　　作者簡介：赵少红（1990-）， 女， 湖北孝感人，武汉大学外国语言文学学院英文系2014级研究生，专业：英语语言文学，研究方向：英美文学。