My letters! all dead paper, mute and white!

我的信！一堆堆死沉沉的纸，苍白又无声，

And yet they seem alive and quivering

可是它们又象具有生命、颤动在

Against my tremulous hands which loose the string

我拿不稳的手内——是那发抖的手

And let them drop down on my knee to-night.

解开丝带，让它们今晚散满在

This said,—he wished to have me in his sight

我膝上。这封说：他多盼望有个机会，

Once, as a friend: this fixed a day in spring

能作为朋友，见一见我。这一封又订了

To come and touch my hand . . . a simple thing,

春天里一个日子，来见我，跟我

Yet I wept for it!—this, . . . the paper’s light . . .

握握手——平常的事，我可哭了！

Said, Dear I love thee; and I sank and quailed

这封说（不多几个字）：“亲，我爱你！”

As if God’s future thundered on my past.

而我却惶恐得象上帝的未来在轰击

This said, I am thine—and so its ink has paled

我的过去。这封说：“我属于你！”那墨迹，

With lying at my heart that beat too fast.

紧贴在我悸跳的心头，久了，褪了色。

And this . . . O Love, thy words have ill availed

而这封……爱啊，你的言词有什么神妙，

If, what this said, I dared repeat at last!

假如这里吐露的，我敢把它再说！