Come ye hither where my pen dwells,
Find for thine eyes the countenance of your stead,
Conceive for thy being the altitude of your flight,
Know for thy self truth:
For if yet, with the fortitude of thy bosom,
Ye seek not the face of fruitfulness,
Thy barn shall stand as barren and as dry as the wind that holds hands with December.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem