How fragile is our love and labor,
It flickers like a wind-whipped flame;
How fast our wick does burn and taper,
Ending life in smoke-like fame;
Plant perennials here in my soil,
Knowing Fate's inconstancy;
That from my grave for all your toil
I can refresh your memory.
That I may raise a ribboned hand
And give a furtive wave
To remind you of the laughing man,
Your father in his grave
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem