From you have I been absent in the spring，

　　When proud-pied April， dressed in all his trim，

　　Hath put a spirit of youth in everything，

　　That heavy Saturn¹ laughed and leaped with him，

　　Yet nor the lays of birds， nor the sweet smell

　　Of different flowers in odor and in hue²，

　　Could make me any summer's story tell，

　　Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew.

　　Nor did I wonder at the lily's white，

　　Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose；

　　They were but sweet， but figures of delight，

　　Drawn³ after you， you pattern of all those.

　　Yet seemed it winter still， and， you away，

　　As with your shadow I with these did play.

　　九八

　　我离开你的时候正好是春天，

　　当绚烂的四月，披上新的锦袄，

　　把活泼的春心给万物灌注遍，

　　连沉重的土星也跟着笑和跳。

　　可是无论小鸟的歌唱，或万紫

　　千红、芬芳四溢的一簇簇鲜花，

　　都不能使我诉说夏天的故事，

　　或从烂熳的山洼把它们采掐：

　　我也不羡慕那百合花的洁白，

　　也不赞美玫瑰花的一片红晕；

　　它们不过是香，是悦目的雕刻，

　　你才是它们所要摹拟的真身。

　　因此，于我还是严冬，而你不在，

　　像逗着你影子，我逗它们开怀。