NOW colored lights of morning rise
And paint the skies
With warmer dyes,
A thousand times
More bright, more rare
As summer climbs
The northern stair;
To where,
Expecting them with joy and song,
(Though winter still be on the hill),
Sits March, his verdant vale along,
And pipes for Summer with a will.
Bright jets of flame, the crocus buds
Out of their beds
Lift up their heads;
Then with a spring
Above the mold,
Each purple wing,
Each wing of gold,
Unfold;
Bright correspondents in the grass
Of that high incandescent sun,
Whose bending angels, as they pass,
Light up the flowers one by one.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem