My fancies are fireflies, — Specks of living light winkling in the dark.

　　我的梦幻恰是一团萤火——在幽暗中闪烁着灵动的流光。

　　The voice of wayside pansies, that do not attract the careless glance, murmurs in these desultory lines.

　　幽径边，紫罗兰的情愫难以招徕那无心的一瞥，只得吟诵着零乱的诗句喃喃责怨。

　　In the drowsy dark caves of the mind dreams build their nest with fragments dropped from day’s caravan.

　　在静寂阴暗的心之幽穴，梦想以昼之旅队遗失于大漠的断章来营筑栖巢。

　　Spring scatters the petals of flowers that are not for the fruits of the future, but for the moment’s whim.

　　春天抛撒着花瓣，不是为来日的累累硕果，而是因瞬间的妙想遐思。

　　Joy freed from the bond of earth’s slumber rushes into numberless leaves, and dances in the air for a day.

　　欢乐自酣寐之尘世释逸而出，流涌入芳菲叶海，日日在风中摇曳漫舞。

　　My words that are slight may lightly dance upon time’s waves, when my works heavy with import have gone down.

　　我的语言无足轻重，然而，当我的作品因蕴意深刻而沉淀时，它们却能够踏着岁月的浮波翩跹舞蹈。

　　Mind’s underground moths groatters the petals of flowers that are not for the fruits of the future, but for the moment’s whim.

　　春天抛撒着花瓣，不是为来日的累累硕果，而是因瞬间的妙想遐思。

　　Joy freed from the bond of earth’s slumber rushes into numberless leaves, and dances in the air for a day.

　　欢乐自酣寐之尘世释逸而出，流涌入芳菲叶海，日日在风中摇曳漫舞。

　　My words that are slight may lightly dance upon time’s waves, when my works heavy with import have gone down.

　　我的语言无足轻重，然而，当我的作品因蕴意深刻而沉淀时，它们却能够踏着岁月的浮波翩跹舞蹈。

　　Mind’s underground moths grow filmy wings and take a farewell flight in the sunset sky.

　　生着轻薄纱翼的心之蛾，在落日洒金的碧落中漫舞着离愁。

　　The butterfly counts not months but moments, and has time enough.

　　蝴蝶细数的并非月份，而是瞬间，她的时光因之而富足。

　　My thoughts, like sparks, ride on winged surprises, carrying a single laughter. The tree gazes in love at its own beautiful shadow which yet it never can grasp.

　　我的思想宛如焰火，纯朴地微笑着，骑跨于惊羡之羽翼。

　　树木脉脉情深地凝注着它美丽的倩影，却永远无法将它捉住。

　　Let my love, like sunlight, surround you and yet give you illumined freedom.

　　让我的爱如阳光般将你拥抱，并赠你璀璨的自由。

　　Days are coloured bubbles that float upon the surface of fathomless night.

　　白昼是色彩缤纷的浮沫，于深邃的夜色中浮荡。

　　My offerings are too timid to claim your remembrance, and therefore you may remember them.

　　我的祭奉因你的铭记而羞惭，而你却因此将其铭记。

　　Leave out my name from the gift if it be a burden, but keep my song.

　　假如我的名字成了负累，就将它从这礼物上拭去吧，但请保留我的诗歌。

　　April, like a child, writes hieroglyphs on dust with flowers, wipes them away and forgets.

　　四月，像个顽皮的孩子，用鲜花把难懂的字句写在泥土上又抹去，随即忘于脑后。

　　Memory, the priestess, kill the present and offers it heart to the shrine of the dead past.

　　From the solemn gloom of the temple children run out to sit in the dust, God watchs them play and forget the priest.

　　“记忆”这个女祭司，她损毁了“现在