From you have I been absent in the spring,

When proud-pied April dress'd in all his trim

Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing,

That heavy Saturn laugh'd and leap'd with him.

Yet nor the lays of birds nor the sweet smell

Of different flowers in odour 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 seem'd it winter still, and, you away,

As with your shadow I with these did play.

我離開你的時候正好是春天，

當絢爛的四月，披上新的錦襖，

把活潑的春心給萬物灌注遍，

連沉重的土星③也跟著笑和跳。

可是無論小鳥的歌唱，或萬紫

千紅、芬芳四溢的一簇簇鮮花，

都不能使我訴說夏天的故事，

或從爛熳的山洼把它們采掐：

我也不羨慕那百合花的潔白，

也不贊美玫瑰花的一片紅暈；

它們不過是香，是悅目的雕刻，

你才是它們所要摹擬的真身。

　　因此，于我還是嚴冬，而你不在，

　　像逗著你影子，我逗它們開懷。