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 Saturn laughed and leaped with him，

Yet nor the lays of birds， nor the sweet smell

Of different flowers in odor and in hue，

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，

Drawn 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。