我的信！一堆堆死沉沉的纸，苍白又无声，

My letters! all dead paper, mute and white!

可是它们又象具有生命、颤动在

And yet they seem alive and quivering

我拿不稳的手内——是那发抖的手

Against my tremulous hands which loose the string

解开丝带，让它们今晚散满在

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

我膝上。这封说：他多盼望有个机会，

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

能作为朋友，见一见我。这一封又订了

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

春天里一个日子，来见我，跟我

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

握握手——平常的事，我可哭了！

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

这封说（不多几个字）：“亲，我爱你！”

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

而我却惶恐得象上帝的未来在轰击

As if God’s future thundered on my past.

我的过去。这封说：“我属于你！”那墨迹，

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

紧贴在我悸跳的心头，久了，褪了色。

With lying at my heart that beat too fast.

而这封……爱啊，你的言词有什么神妙，

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

假如这里吐露的，我敢把它再说！

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