I must feel the pulse of the day
Panting in the stark heat of mid-day
Sweaty in the Mediterranean sun
Burning in the heat blinding
At one and two o’ clock at afternoon
Pulsating slow slower, slower
As the sun gets below
The city bastions treed with olives
And yews and cinnamon and oaks
As the long night prepares his horses and his car
Wherein he will light soon to go his round
Round the azure heavens drawing after him
His mantle dark-transparent where he pass:
And one by one the stars of the long night
With his experienced stewardship he lights.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem