To Mary Robinson
'WHAT, are you lost, you pretty little lady?
This is no place for such sweet things as you.
Our bodies, rank with sweat, will make you sicken,
And, you'll observe, our lives are rank lives too.'
'Oh no, I am not lost! Oh no, I've come here
(And I have brought my lute, see, in my hand)
To see you, and to sing of all you suffer
To the great World, and make it understand!'
'Well, say! If one of those who'd robbed you thousands,
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem