On boughs a-tremble with the rain,
The blown white flowers of the plum
Their fragile hold awhile retain.
And though tempestuous tears have come
Between us, and a startled moan
From mouths that kisses have made dumb —
Still, still, the gentler tears atone,
And still we keep our April love,
Like poising petals all unflown.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem