Happier than green-kirtled apple-trees
Waving their soft-rimmed fans of light
And taking the morning mist, in quick breaths,
You sit in the woven meditation and surprise
Of a morning uncovering its wind-wreathed head.
And yet within the light stillness of your soul
Dream-heavy guards sleep uneasily
Over the body of your last slain sorrow.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I like the poet's style. RIP Maxwell. There is a kind of mysticism in this poem which unmistakenly goes on to impress the reader.