I walked a sylvan trail at noon
And in the sky a blossoming moon
Shun its candid light upon,
An infant majestic, developing swan.
Its beauty: So hallowed and pure
And a mind yet so immature
Of the cruelties that await the day
It mounts and, mistakenly, soars away.
But an open window (the next morning) I saw
On Pledge Street, a sight unknown of flaw.
Artistry, like the infant swan,
Stood on the windowsill that early dawn.
A heavenly pie chilled in the air
As elders kneeled for morning prayer.
Lost be the infants (who sin ‘stead of pray)
Who, contrasting the swan, have fled away.
Inevitable manners of a mortal mind
Never seem to grasp, in time,
The bearing of a Godly swan
Which with my apathy it withdrawn.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Nice poetic pursuit. Keep up.