The hangover dawn rushes on the hill,
The beasts howl in the morning shrill
Where moon tongue shone hung, upon
Wildwood hill, the dark groves
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Over the brushwood by the wet wind swept
Westward, wept upon, at first light,
A dark young God, from a secret chamber,
Emerges, looks upon
The unknown tragedy...
The rout carried on the soft wind to his senses
But embalmed, between a panting moon
And damp earth's incenses…
Ancestors who vainly sought that moon
(‘heave-ho, boys! ') with glistening moon-eyes.
The warm, sick smells of their anointments rise....
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem