A groundhog ate my tulip bulbs
I saw him in the morn;
Their bursting heads
Had barely blazed
Their petals chewed, now torn;
Beauty has no special right
To bob upon the lawn
I hold heir limpid tooth worked spears
And helpless glower and mourn.
The flower I thought to give to you
In tribute to your form
Was eaten by that waddling rat
Who sniffs the air with scorn.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem