當(dāng)你老了，白發(fā)蒼蒼，睡意朦朧，
    在爐前打盹，請取下這本詩篇，
    慢慢吟誦，夢見你當(dāng)年的雙眼
    那柔美的光芒與青幽的暈影;
    多少人真情假意，愛過你的美麗，
    愛過你歡樂而迷人的青春，
    唯獨一人愛你朝圣者的心，
    愛你日益凋謝的臉上的哀戚;
    當(dāng)你佝僂著，在灼熱的爐柵邊，
    你將輕輕訴說，帶著一絲傷感：
    逝去的愛，如今已步上高山，
    在密密星群里埋藏它的赧顏。
    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.
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