The core ere trodden once upon
Is consecrated, hallowed
Until another’s footsteps mark
It, like the fields, lies fallow
Then after storm has taken tithe
The spirit keeps the stain
Until the imp, old father time
Sees fit to wash again
And once that core is fresh once more
‘Gain humbly waits its turn
For bliss upon its countenance
Or hellish heat of spurn
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem