Hold hard, these ancient minutes in the cuckoo's month
等一等，布谷鸟月份中的古老时分
Hold hard, these ancient minutes in the cuckoo's month,
Under the lank, fourth folly on Glamorgan's hill,
As the green blooms ride upward, to the drive of time;
Time, in a folly's rider, like a county man
Over the vault of ridings with his hound at heel,
Drives forth my men, my children, from the hanging south.
等一等，布谷鸟月份中的古老时分，
在格拉摩根山上第四道细长的栏杆下，
翠绿的花朵，随时光的催动，争相开放；
时间，化为愚蠢的骑手，像位乡间绅士
身后尾随着猎犬，奔驰在拱形的马道上，
自下悬的南方，驱赶我的人类，我的孩子。
Country, your sport is summer, and December's pools
By crane and water-tower by the seedy trees
Lie this fifth month unskated, and the birds have flown;
Holy hard, my country children in the world of tales,
The greenwood dying as the deer fall in their tracks,
The first and steepled season, to the summer's game.
乡村，你的运动是夏天，十二月的池塘
倚立着吊车，水塔倚立着多籽的树林，
五月尚未滑行，鸟儿却已飞翔；
等一等，我童话世界里的乡村小孩，
绿林奄奄一息，恰如鹿失陷自身的踪迹，
这最初的尖顶季节，适宜夏天的游戏。
And now the horns of England, in the sound of shape,
Summon your snowy horsemen, and the four-stringed hill,
Over the sea-gut loudening, sets a rock alive;
Hurdles and guns and railings, as the boulders heave,
Crack like a spring in a vice, bone breaking April,
Spill the lank folly's hunter and the hard-held hope.
此刻英格兰的号角，正吹响有形的声音，
召唤你雪中的骑手，而四弦的山岗
响彻海峡的上空，激活礁岩；
篱笆、枪支和栏杆，巨石般凸现，
像春天在邪恶中碎裂，骨骼敲碎四月，
倾泻瘦削愚蠢的猎手和难以驾驭的希望。
Down fall four padding weathers on the scarlet lands,
Stalking my children's faces with a tail of blood,
Time, in a rider rising, from the harnessed valley;
Hold hard, my county darlings, for a hawk descends,
Golden Glamorgan straightens, to the falling birds.
Your sport is summer as the spring runs angrily.
四种马蹄声声的天气落在猩红的土地，
拖着一尾血迹潜近孩子们的脸，
时间，化为骑手跃自马具般的山谷；
等一等，我乡间的宝贝，一只鹰飞落，
金色的格拉摩根山随坠落的鸟群挺直身姿。
你的运动是夏天，当春天愤然奔跑。
