啊，你，乘着西西里岛的大风，穿着火焰的凉鞋，在海盗的风中蔓延;啊，你来的时候没有折断风的花朵——虽然当雷声说出众神的命令时，庇利翁在颤抖!你们不是已经飞到远古时代的黄昏里去了吗?——你，快乐的希腊人所鼓舞的，用手从疯狂的石头上敲下来的你，你撤退了，你的形象应该站起来接受他们的赞美。涂成泥土，冻成石头!你们，现在在劫掠的大厅里，面对着不敬的目光，残缺的额头，残缺的残缺，倚着陌生的墙壁，躺在陌生的土地上。仁慈的人们啊!不要再，不要再，你们将在危险的奥萨上空展翅!不再从池塘和金色的树林里榨取欢乐;不再有大海在你穿着火鞋飞翔的脚下嘶嘶作响。雷声必不在你怀中叹息，闪电也不摇动你手中的倒钩;在树林和树林中，没有崇拜者追随你的脚步。 No more 'thwart skies your golden stallions race On mighty quests. And yet what fane, what column, rises now To save or shine: What temple travails at such quickening feet, What wing-tip seeds a shrine: What god hath bid us build in wold or street, Such breast and brow? What have our wisdom and our worship done To raise such gods? To quench the ruined eyes of Parthenon What newer beauty nods, And shames the wreckless brow that stares upon The amazèd sun? Held up in arms of columns white as flowers, You faced the sea, With your great breasts for glory passioning,-- For mortal's victory; Not 'neath occaisonal thin spires that spring From streets of ours, Hooding the dying god, whom men revile,-- Who bears their sin. No great winds thunder over sun-splashed thrones, Our dusty shrines within, Where troubled feet make groan the weary stones, In hollow isle. I, only I, kneel at forsaken shrine: The lamp I bring Scarce throws a shade beneath your eyelids there: Forlorn the song I sing To ears august, and these wrung berries bear A bitter wine. Yet still I kneel, poor praise to offer up To each great name! And I shall feel upon my brow descend A sudden edge of flame. Your wings shall smear these words, even as ye bend To this poor cup.