十四行诗  17

莎士比亚 （1564-1616）

谁会将来对我的诗词相信，

若诗中洋溢着对你的崇尚？

即便天晓得它只是一座坟，

把你的生命和其本质埋藏。

我若能写出你眼眸的流彩，

以新曲调为你的优雅点奏，

后人会说诗是谎言莫信赖，

哪有这天秀下凡人间逗留。

为此我的文册随岁月变黄，

受人讥讽当作唠叨的老朽，

你真实的版权被贬为诗狂，

被咒为老调重谈毫无节奏。

  但那时你若有诗作留传下，

  恰如你重生在你我的诗里。

Sonnet 17

Willian Shakespeare (1564-1616)

Who will believe my version in time to come

If it were filled with your most high deserts?

Though yet heaven knows it is but as a tomb

Which hides your life, and shows not half your parts.

If I could write the beauty of your eyes,

And in fresh numbers number all your graces,

The age to come would say this poet lies,

Such heavenly touches ne’er touched earthly faces.

So should my papers, yellowed with their age,

Be scorned, like old men of less truth than tongue,

And your true rights be termed a poet’s rage,

And stretched meter of an antique song.

But were some child of yours alive that time,

You should live twice in it, and in my rhyme.