When you are old and gray and full of sleep，

And nodding by the fire， take down this book，

And slowly read， and dream of the soft look，

Your eyes had once， and of their shadows deep.

How many loved your moments of glad grace，

And loved your beauty with love false or true，

But one man loved the Pilgrim Soul in you，

And loved the sorrows of your changing face.

And bending down beside the glowing bars，

Murmur， a little sadly. how Love fled，

And paced upon the mountains overhead，

And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

當你老了，头发花白，睡意沉沉，

倦坐在炉旁，取下这本书来，

慢慢读着，追梦当年的眼神，

那柔美的神采与深幽的晕影。

多少人爱过你青春的片影，

爱过你的美貌，以虚伪或是真情，

惟独一人爱你那朝圣者的心，

爱你哀戚的脸上岁月的留痕。

为炉栅边，你弯下了腰，

低语着，带着浅浅的伤感，

爱情是怎样逝去，又怎样步上群山，

怎样在繁星之间藏住了脸。