I may utter the vain discourses as I write,
But wandering in this plumage is deceit;
For I do not write what is certain, but what
Is right and that commands a sense of betrayal.
I have fancy in the court of my judge,
Its theory affects us all, leagues and leagues
Of thought prevail, only to mock the vain
Scribble coming from my moonless pen.
So I dwell in utter labour, by being earnest
And rising to the fore, to establish my reign
As a spokesman, one of starlight and constant
Straight conversation, the scarce acts
Will approach me from the judge.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem