THE swallow leaves her nest,
The soul my weary breast;
But therefore let the rain
On my grave
Fall pure; for why complain?
Since both will come again
O'er the wave.
The wind dead leaves and snow
Doth hurry to and fro;
And, once, a day shall break
O'er the wave,
When a storm of ghosts shall shake
The dead, until they wake
In the grave.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
as swallow leaves nest, soul leaves weary breast Robust romanticism when he wishes let it rain fall pure on his grave.