Here’s the volume: stain nor blot
Mars a leaf to-day;
Sin and folly, they are not;
Sorrow is away.
Look! Each page is white and clear,
And’t is morning of the year.
Of the days that swiftly run
This will not be mute:
Good or evil said or done,
Sweet or bitter fruit,
What shall be the record, dear,
At the evening of the year?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem