Hang me a door with gables bright
so joy can find its way by night
through bootless tracks where great-fords lie,
in the distance of an external eye.
Here-a-swathe of farm lights burn
without oil, gas or peat-bog turf.
Here-a-lantern hangs, omnipotent and gold.
Bringing a shepherds-flock back unto His fold
where one man's labouring equals one lord's serf
where a prophet preached; till his own, nocturne.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem