Earth has borne a little son;
He is a very little one.
He has a head of golden hair
And a grave, unwinking stare.
He wears a bib all frilled and green
Round his neck to keep him clean.
Though before another spring
A thousand children Earth may bring
Forth to bud and blossoming-
Lily daughters cool and slender,
Roses passionate and tender,
Tulip sons as brave as swords,
Hollyhocks like laughing lords-
Yet she'll never love them quite
As much as she loves Aconite:
Aconite, the first of all,
Who is so very, very small;
Who is so golden-haired and good,
And wears a bib, as babies should.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem