Since it was fashioned on the turner’s spinning lathe
The old, ash walking-stick has wandered many miles
On bracken banks, in frost-glazed fields, by heather moors
And waited while I clambered on unsteady stiles.
It has, unpaid, supported me, through thick and thin,
A sure companion, much more faithful than those souls
Who only paid me homage when Dame Fortune smiled
But then like snakes, reneged and crept into their holes.
My silent friend, who never speaks his cold contempt
Will be the one that never strays far from my sight
And holds me up when other frail supporters fail
And helps me when I struggle on in darkest night.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem