The graves lie out in the wet
The living are home and dry
March...and the weather's dreich
Snow hills and a weeping sky
Buds pull their coats about them
Shivering in mist and rain
The hook-beaked curlew's calling
Like a spirit wracked with pain.
You have slipped from touch to memory
Under the sodden dew
Like the breeze that parts the moor-grass
Parts it and passes through
And I would give every treasure
To join you there in the rain
And rock you as in your childhood
In your ghostly counterpane
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem