Poor hill farmer astray in the grass;

可怜的山地农夫迷乱在草丛中；

There came a movement and he looked up, but

一开始有个动静，他抬头去看

All that he saw was the wind pass.

却只看见一丝风儿吹过。

There was a sound of voice on the air.

空气中又飘过一个嗓音。

But where, where? It was only the glib stream talking

但是在哪呢，在哪？只有饶舌的小溪

Softly to itself. And once when he was walking

不停地低声自语。还有一次他走在

Along a lane in spring he was deceived

春天的小路上，一个很尖的声音

By a shrill; whistle coming through the leaves;

也骗过了他；树叶间传来的哨声；

Wait a minute, wait a minute--four swift notes;

等等，不对——有四个很快的音符；

He turned, and it was nothing, only a Thrush

他转过身，不是别的，一只画眉

In the thorn bushes easing its throat.

正在荆棘丛中清它的嗓子。

He swore at himself for paying heed,

他不由地怪自己多管闲事。

The poor hill farmer, so often again

这个可怜的山地农夫，一次又一次

Stopping, staring, listening, in vain,

停下，凝望，聆听，失望，

His ear betrayed by the heart’s need.

他心底的需要背叛了他的耳朵。