老紫杉，你设法抓紧那些石碑，

old Yew, which graspest at the stones

      它们叫出躺在下面的死者的名字，

    that name the under-lying dead,

      你的细枝网住没有梦的头颅，

    thy fibres net the dreamless head,

你的根茎缠绕在那些骨头周围。

thy roots are wrapt about the bones.

季节催动花朵再次开放，

The seasons bring the flower again，

      且催动头生的鸟畜簇拥成群；

    and bring the firstling to the flock;

      而在由你所构成的幽暗里，钟声

    and in the dusk of thee, the clock

敲打出人们细小的生命。

beats out the little lives of men.

你不关心绚烂与盛开，

O not for thee the glow, the bloom,

      也不会在任何的大风中改变，

    who changest not in any gale,

      烙铁的夏日也丝毫不能

    nor branding summer suns avail

触动你年深日久的荫郁：

to touch thy thousand years of gloom:

凝望着你，忧郁之树，

And gazing on thee, sullen tree,

      渴慕你无比顽固的坚毅，

    sick for thy stubborn hardihood,

      我好像也渐渐失去血气，

    I seem to fail from out my blood

渐渐融入了你的身躯。

and grow incorporate into thee.