But those of memory.

　　Yet how much room for memory there is

　　In the loose girdle of soft rain.

　　今夜没有星星

　　却有回忆点点。

　　而流云柔雨中

　　能容多少回忆？

　　There is even room enough

　　For the letters of my mother's mother,

　　Elizabeth,

　　That have been pressed so long

　　Into a corner of the roof

　　That they are brown and soft,

　　And liable to melt as snow.

　　原来回忆尽在其中，

　　连我祖母伊丽莎白的信

　　也还在，

　　挤塞在屋顶一角

　　很久很久。

　　已经泛黄、柔软，

　　随时像雪一般融化。

　　Over the greatness of such space

　　Steps must be gentle.

　　It is all hung by an invisible white hair.

　　It trembles as birch limbs webbing the air.

　　走进这回忆的圣殿

　　脚步一定要轻柔。

　　它全系于一根看不见的白发。

　　它颤抖着，如桦树枝在网罗空气。

　　And I ask myself:

　　我问自己：

　　"Are your fingers long enough to play

　　Old keys that are but echoes:

　　Is the silence strong enough

　　To carry back the music to its source

　　And back to you again

　　As though to her?"

　　"你的手指是否长到能触及

　　那古老琴键，带来哪怕只是回音点点：

　　四周的静寂是否强大到

　　能把音乐送至其源头

　　再次传回给你

　　如同传给她一般？"