old Yew, which graspest at the stones

老紫杉，你设法抓紧那些石碑，

    that name the under-lying dead,

      它们叫出躺在下面的死者的名字，

    thy fibres net the dreamless head,

      你的细枝网住没有梦的头颅，

thy roots are wrapt about the bones.

你的根茎缠绕在那些骨头周围。

The seasons bring the flower again，

季节催动花朵再次开放，

    and bring the firstling to the flock;

      且催动头生的鸟畜簇拥成群；

    and in the dusk of thee, the clock

      而在由你所构成的幽暗里，钟声

beats out the little lives of men.

敲打出人们细小的生命。

O not for thee the glow, the bloom,

你不关心绚烂与盛开，

    who changest not in any gale,

      也不会在任何的大风中改变，

    nor branding summer suns avail

      烙铁的夏日也丝毫不能

to touch thy thousand years of gloom:

触动你年深日久的荫郁：

And gazing on thee, sullen tree,

凝望着你，忧郁之树，

    sick for thy stubborn hardihood,

      渴慕你无比顽固的坚毅，

    I seem to fail from out my blood

      我好像也渐渐失去血气，

and grow incorporate into thee.

渐渐融入了你的身躯。