Time is a Bitter Thread, upon which the Spider
hangs tenaciously, but with a faint heart.
Unknowingly of his easy death; Lying in a
conceptional Bed of Down.
This dream has further dreams of Love and Joy,
and forever righteousness. A yet further dream
of an easy death, to Golden Portals, of only
right. But, it is known by someone - - - -,
And is sensed in uneasy dreams; Dreams that
are nearer to the truth. That this grasp upon
the clearer brighter way, is so very slight.
And the ways of dreamless sleep, are Black,
Black, until falling death - - - - -
with no respite.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem