Was it the proud full sail of his great verse,

Bound for the prize of all too precious you,

That did my ripe thoughts in my brain inhearse,

Making their tomb the womb wherein they grew?

Was it his spirit, by spirits taught to write

Above a mortal pitch, that struck me dead?

No, neither he, nor his compeers by night

Giving him aid, my verse astonished.

He, nor that affable familiar ghost

Which nightly gulls him with intelligence

As victors of my silence cannot boast;

I was not sick of any fear from thence:

But when your countenance fill'd up his line,

Then lack'd I matter; that enfeebled mine.

是否他那雄渾的詩句，昂昂然

揚(yáng)帆直駛?cè)Z取太寶貴的你，

使我成熟的思想在腦里流產(chǎn)，

把孕育它們的胎盤變成墓地？

是否他的心靈，從幽靈學(xué)會(huì)寫

超凡的警句，把我活生生殛斃？

不，既不是他本人，也不是黑夜

遣送給他的助手，能使我昏迷。

他，或他那個(gè)和善可親的幽靈

（它夜夜用機(jī)智騙他），都不能自豪

是他們把我打垮，使我默不作聲；

他們的威脅絕不能把我嚇倒。

　　但當(dāng)他的詩充滿了你的鼓勵(lì)，

　　我就要缺靈感；這才使我喪氣。