Though you speak with broken voice
and
broken your accents half-parched
arise from in side your breast
and this
following your return from the
funeral:
you must this night honor
the coffined body by
through his works and Ideas ply:
there
you will find founts, founts of joy
not weeping:
and from the sleepy valleys nocturnal;
will rise silver calls and chants
that with Ideas sparkle a sign
that these above the earth dwell and are
far
from resigned with the body in the
nether earth:
then when you tire through the night
to read the great works of the coffined
shroud:
then
will Dawn resplendent come and console you
and as in airy hummock in her hands
taking your body tired to deserved rest.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem