A man, a field, silence—what is there to say?

一个人，一片田野，寂静——有什么可说的？

He lives, he moves, and the October day

他活着，他移动，十月的白昼

Burns slowly down.

慢慢地燃烧殆尽。

 History is made

 历史被创造

Elsewhere; the hours forfeit to time's blade

在别处；时间在时间的利刃下缴械

Don't matter here. The leaves large and small,

这里无关紧要。巨大和渺小的树叶，

Shed by the branches, unlamented fall

从枝头脱落，不被惋惜地坠落

About his shoulders. You may look in vain

在他的肩头。你或许徒劳地望着

Through the eyes' window; on his meagre hearth

透过眼睛的窗户；望着他那贫乏的壁炉

The thin, shy soul has not begun its reign

那瘦弱、羞怯的灵魂尚未开始它的

Over the darkness. Beauty, love and mirth

对黑暗的统治。美丽、爱和欢笑

And joy are strangers there.

和喜乐在那里都是生客。

 You must revise

 你必须修正

Your bland philosophy of nature, earth

你那乏味的自然哲学，地

Has of itself no power to make men wise.

本身没有能力使人智慧。