By W.B. Yeats

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,

And nodding by the fire, take down this book,

And slowly read, and dream of the soft look,

Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,

And loved your beauty with love false or true,

But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,

And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,

Murmur, a little sadly, how love fled,

And paced upon the mountains overhead,

And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

当你年老鬓白，昏沉欲睡，

坐在炉边打盹，取下这本诗集，

缓缓读起，梦忆你过去可人的双眼，

那脉脉秋水，她们曾经是多么的深情和曼美；

多少人曾爱过和你美好时光的愉悦，

多少人又曾或真或假倾慕你的容颜，

但唯有一个人爱你圣洁高雅的心灵，

爱你那铅华洗尽，年老色衰的憔悴；

你在炽红壁炉前低头沉吟，喃喃细语，默念曾经消逝的爱情，

而它们却早已步入连绵峰谷山峦，

如同爱你的他，将脸庞藏于那漫天繁星。