A fleece of woool,
Dew, due!
On the threshing floor;
Muse, use!
On the dry ground;
Bet, between!
Entrenched quite deeply.
Spade, made!
With no difference;
But, with the muse of love,
because it was so!
And, to rise up early in the morning;
With the muse of the red rose in your hand,
After the act.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem