To the top of that tree-clad hill I go,
And towards my father I gaze,
Till with my mind's eye his form I espy,
And my mind's ear hears how he says:--
'Alas for my son on service abroad!
He rests not from morning till eve.
May he careful be and come back to me!
While he is away, how I grieve!'
To the top of that barren hill I climb,
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem