I walked past a rose
On impulse, stopped
Then turned back;
How could I discard
Your folded glory
Which nothing lacks;
The shrivelled hand of Winter
Tried to take you prey
But failed;
The frosted blast of early Spring
With it's icy binds
And grimy winds that railed;
All now past memories
Under your soft pillow
Of yellow bloom;
All now swept away
In the Summer tide
That is your perfume
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem