An arrow, feathery, alive,
He darts and sings-
Then with a sudden skimming dive
Of striped wings
He finds a pine and, debonair,
Makes with his mate
All birds that ever rested there
Articulate.
The whisper of a multitude
Of happy wings
Is round him, a returning brood,
Each time he sings.
Though heaven be not for them or him
Yet he is wise
And tiptoes daily on the rim
Of paradise.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem