Turn to thy window in the silver hour
That day comes stepping down the hills of night,
Infolded as the leaves infold a flower
By all her rose-leaf robes of misty light.
Then, like a joy born out of blackest sorrow,
The miracle of morning seems to say,
'There is no night without its dear to-morrow,
No lonely dark that does not find the day.'
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
nice and short I like your concept