old Yew, which graspest at the stones

苍老紫杉树，你笼住的碑

    that name the under-lying dead,

　　把下面死者的姓名道出，

    thy fibres net the dreamless head,

　　你细枝网住无梦的头颅，

thy roots are wrapt about the bones.

你根儿裹在遗骨的周围。

The seasons bring the flower again，

花开时节又带来了花朵，

    and bring the firstling to the flock;

　　带来了初生的幼畜雏禽；

    and in the dusk of thee, the clock

你荫影里的一下下钟声

beats out the little lives of men.

把短短的人生逐点敲走。

O not for thee the glow, the bloom,

你呀，任何风改变不了你，

    who changest not in any gale,

　　阳光和花朵都同你无关，

    nor branding summer suns avail

　　连烙铁一般的夏日也难

to touch thy thousand years of gloom:

触动你悠悠千年的阴郁。

And gazing on thee, sullen tree,

看着你这棵阴沉沉的树，

    sick for thy stubborn hardihood,

　　愿像你一样地坚忍顽强，

    I seem to fail from out my blood

　　我仿佛血气消尽人变僵，

and grow incorporate into thee.

渐渐地与你融合在一处。