When looking at the willow
There came to me a thought
It's not the mourning face
That men have often taught
Instead it is a humble,
A small and bashful soul
Bowed down with prayerful mumble
And not with ever-dole
With leafy branch extended
The others do their praise
But Willows be commended
With modest hearts a-blaze
Bowed down and glorifying
The God who came to pay
And not with woeful sighing
But timid thanks they pray
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem