Green grapes of Proserpine,
             Pale beds of blowing rushes
             Where no leaf blooms or blushes
             Save this whereout she crushes
             For dead men deadly wine.
             Pale, without name or number,
             In fruitless fields of corn,
             They bow themselves and slumber
             All night till light is born;
             And like a soul belated,
             In hell and heaven unmated,
             By cloud and mist abated
             Comes out of darkness morn.
             Though one were strong as seven,
             He too with death shall dwell,
             Nor wake with wings in heaven,
             Nor weep for pains in hell;
             Though one were fair as roses,
             His beauty clouds and closes;
             And well though love reposes,
             In the end it is not well.
             Pale, beyond porch and portal,
             Crowned with calm leaves, she stands
             Who gathers all things mortal
             With cold immortal hands;
             Her languid lips are sweeter
             Than love's who fears to greet her
             To men that mix and meet her
             From many times and lands.


             She waits for each and other,
             She waits for all men born;
             Forgets the earth her mother,
             The life of fruits and corn;
             And spring and seed and swallow
             Take wing for her and follow
             Where summer song rings hollow
             And flowers are put to scorn.
             There go the loves that wither,
             The old loves with wearier wings;
             And all dead years draw thither,
              And all disastrous things;
             Dead dreams of days forsaken,
             Blind buds that snows have shaken,
             Wild leaves that winds have taken,
             Red strays of ruined springs.
             We are not sure of sorrow,
             And joy was never sure;
             To-day will die to-morrow;
             Time stoops to no man's lure;
             And love, grown faint and fretful,
             With lips but half regretful
             Sighs, and with eyes forgetful
             Weeps that no loves endure.
             From too much love of living,
             From hope and fear set free,
             We thank with brief thanksgiving
             Whatever gods may be
             That no life lives for ever;
             That dead men rise up never;
             That even the weariest river
             Winds somewhere safe to sea.
             Then star nor sun shall waken,
             Nor any change of light:
             Nor sound of waters shaken,
             Nor any sound or sight:
             Nor wintry leaves nor vernal,
             Nor days nor things diurnal;
             Only the sleep eternal
             In an eternal night.
希望有翻译高手来把这首诗译的精彩一些。大家都拿些意见。


抛弃对生命的一往情深， 终不必受希望和恐惧的缚困。 我们以简短的献言， 感激冥冥中的上苍。 幸喜生命并非永恒， 死去的长眠不复醒。 纵使溪流长逶迤， 也会静静地入海安身...

有过无数的希望，也曾无数次被恐惧包裹，
还是看透了人间众情。
对于无论什么神邸，
只需简短表达我们的敬意。
因为他们没有一个，
能让生命永存，
能让死者复生。
因为就连四处蜿蜒的河流，
也会在某处悄然入海。

舍弃了对生命的热恋，
摆脱了恐惧和希望，
让我们以简短的献言，
感谢冥冥的上苍:
幸喜生命总有尽期，
死去的长眠不复起，
纵使细流逶迤，
也会平安归海洋。