假如其中写满了你至高的美德？
If it were filled with your most high deserts?
可是，天知道，我的诗是坟呵，它埋着
Though yet heaven knows it is but as a tomb
你的一生，显不出你一半的本色。
Which hides your life and shows not half your parts.
如果我能够写出你明眸的流光，
If I could write the beauty of your eyes,
用清新的诗章勾出你全部的仪容，
And in fresh numbers number all your graces,
将来的人们就要说，这诗人在扯谎，
The age to come would say 'This poet lies,
上天的笔触触不到凡人的面孔。
Such heavenly touches ne'er touched earthly faces.'
于是，我那些古旧得发黄的稿纸，
So should my papers, yellowed with their age,
会被人看轻，被当做嚼舌的老人；
Be scorned, like old men of less truth than tongue,
你应得的赞扬被称做诗人的狂思，
And your true rights be termed a poet's rage
称做一篇过甚其辞的古韵文：
And stretched meter of an antique song:
但如果你有个孩子能活到那时期，
But were some child of yours alive that time,
你就双重地活在——他身上，我诗里。
You should live twice, in it and in my rhyme.