不要说诗人死了!即使他躺在尘土里，他也不能放弃他那悦耳的呼吸，没有被嫉妒的死亡所包围!生命把无声的无数人从它的滚动中抛下;他不能分担他们的命运，他在那陶醉的空气中，伴着回声所偷来的悠扬的乐声，留下了他最亲爱的自己，他灵魂的音乐!我们可以在他的地盘上提高我们微弱的赞美的音调，虔诚地小心地在他的眼睛上刻上“他躺在这里;”他为自己建造了一座更高贵的神龛，它那庄严的韵律使时间的潮水倒流，而在它们的大门上，闪闪发光的牌匾上刻着他的名字，上面绣着许多金线!不要说我们的诗人死了，虽然我们踩在他的地盘上!清晨的吟游诗人，在东方燃烧着新生的火焰时，抓住了天上的火焰，吹响了一个民族的琴弦!这些诗句使西风知道了诗人的名字;她们的第一个开放的蓓蕾，她们的名声的少女之花! Count not our Poet dead! The stars shall watch his bed, The rose of June its fragrant life renew His blushing mound to strew, And all the tuneful throats of summer swell With trills as crystal-clear As when he wooed the ear Of the young muse that haunts each wooded dell, With songs of that "rough land" he loved so long and well! He sleeps; he cannot die! As evening's long-drawn sigh, Lifting the rose-leaves on his peaceful mound, Spreads all their sweets around, So, laden with his song, the breezes blow From where the rustling sedge Frets our rude ocean's edge To the smooth sea beyond the peaks of snow. His soul the air enshrines and leaves but dust below!