-
BUT wherefore do not you a
mightier way
Make war upon
this bloody tyrant, Time?
And fortify yourself in your decay
With means more
blessè
d than my barren rime?
Now stand you on the top of
happy hours,
And many
maiden gardens, yet unset,
With virtuous wish would bear your
living flowers,
Much liker
than your painted counterfeit:
So should the lines of life that life
repair
Which this time's
pencil or my pupil pen,
Neither in inward worth nor outward
fair
Can make you live
yourself in eyes of men.
To
give away yourself keeps yourself still,
And you must live, drawn by
your own sweet skill.
但是为什么不用更凶的法子
去抵抗这血淋淋的魔王
--
时光？
不用比我的枯笔吉利的武器，
去防御你的衰朽，把自己加强？
你现在站在黄金时辰的绝顶，
许多少女的花园，还未经播种，
贞洁地切盼你那绚烂的群英，
比你的画像更酷肖你的真容：
只有生命的线能把生命重描；
时光的画笔，或者我这枝弱管，
无论内心的美或外貌的姣好，
都不能使你在人们眼前活现。
献出你自己依然保有你自己，
而你得活着，靠你自己的妙笔。
That time of year thou
mayst in me behold,
When
yellow leaves, or none, or few do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against
the cold,
Bare ruined
choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou seest the
twilight of such day,
As
after sunset fadeth in the west,
Which by and by black night doth take
away,
Death's second self
that seals up all in rest.
In me thou seest the glowing of such
fire,
That on the ashes of
his youth doth lie,
As the
death-bed, whereon it must expire,
Consumed with that which it was
nourished by.