The slight and sorry words meet together,
Tho' sometimes rash or lost or waited, fade.
The tongue that prays to lay to rest the
Too late things that hang between the fine nerve
Of exposed pain. Or put back the drop from
Shallow eyes, cast down as closed blinds in
The rain of quiet minds, in the pensive heart.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem