趴下，你这杂种，死神!回你的狗窝去!我在茴香茎上偷了一口气!在你埋葬我的一根可爱的骨头之前，你会挠挠，你会哀鸣多少个夜晚，你会担心多少根骨头!我什么时候会死?当我的肉体枯萎，黄色的花粉在我头顶上聚集，整个空虚的下午?当甜蜜的恋人停下来疑惑，我是谁，躺在下面，躲着月亮?这是我个人的死亡?-我的肺无法吸入呼吸别人在呼出?这是我微妙的灵魂的终结?— Ah, when the thawed winter splashes Over these chance dust and ashes, Weep not me, my friend! Me, by no means dead In that hour, but surely When this book, unread, Rots to earth obscurely, And no more to any breast, Close against the clamorous swelling Of the thing there is no telling, Are these pages pressed! When this book is mould, And a book of many Waiting to be sold For a casual penny, In a little open case, In a street unclean and cluttered, Where a heavy mud is spattered From the passing drays, Stranger, pause and look; From the dust of ages Lift this little book, Turn the tattered pages, Read me, do not let me die! Search the fading letters, finding Steadfast in the broken binding All that once was I! When these veins are weeds, When these hollowed sockets Watch the rooty seeds Bursting down like rockets, And surmise the spring again, Or, remote in that black cupboard, Watch the pink worms writhing upward At the smell of rain, Boys and girls that lie Whispering in the hedges, Do not let me die, Mix me with your pledges; Boys and girls that slowly walk In the woods, and weep, and quarrel, Staring past the pink wild laurel, Mix me with your talk, Do not let me die! Farmers at your raking, When the sun is high, While the hay is making, When, along the stubble strewn, Withering on their stalks uneaten, Strawberries turn dark and sweeten In the lapse of noon; Shepherds on the hills, In the pastures, drowsing To the tinkling bells Of the brown sheep browsing; Sailors cying through the storm; Scholars at your study; hunters Lost amid the whirling winter's Whiteness uniform; Men that long to sleep; Men that wake and revel;— If an old song leap To your senses' level At such moments, may it be Sometimes, though a moment only, Some forgotten, quaint and homely Vehicle of me? Women at your toil, Women at your leisure, Till the kettle boil, Snatch of me your pleasure, Where the broom-straw marks the leaf; Women quiet with your weeping Lest you wake a workman sleeping, Mix me with your grief. Boys and girls that steal From the shocking laughter Of the old, to kneel By a dripping rafter Under the discoloured eaves, Out of trunks with hingeless covers Lifting tales of saints and lovers, Travellers, goblins, theives, Suns that shine by night, Mountains made from valleys,— Bear me to the light, Flat upon your bellies By the webby window lie, Where the little flies are crawling, Read me, margin me with scrawling, Do no let me die! Sexton, ply your trade! In a shower of gravel Stamp upon your spade! Many a rose shall ravel, Many a metal wreath shall rust In the rain, and I go singing Through the lots where you are flinging Yellow clay on dust!