当你老了，白发苍苍，睡意朦胧，
在炉前打盹，请取下这本诗篇，
慢慢吟诵，梦见你当年的双眼
那柔美的光芒与青幽的晕影;
多少人真情假意，爱过你的美丽，
爱过你欢乐而迷人的青春，
唯独一人爱你朝圣者的心，
爱你日益凋谢的脸上的哀戚;
当你佝偻着，在灼热的炉栅边，
你将轻轻诉说，带着一丝伤感：
逝去的爱，如今已步上高山，
在密密星群里埋藏它的赧颜。
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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