My heart will die if she pleases
In the dark it lie no I wishes
Soberly keeping the last part of it
and my obscure fading restlessness
But I remember you at Tuesday
When you come, think, therein my way
O whence have I called it Sunday?
When I dream about you sitting on the bench
On the sunny summer contrasting day.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem