ALAS, my tent! see through it a whirlwind sweep!
Moaning, poor Fancy's doves are swept away.
I sit alone, a sorrow half asleep,
My consciousness the blackness all astir.
No pilgrim I, a homeless wanderer-
For how canst Thou be in the darkness deep,
Who dwellest only in the living day?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem