LO the twelfth year—the wedding-feast come round
With years for months—and lo the babe new-born;
Out of the womb's rank furnace cast forlorn,
And with contagious effluence seamed and crown'd.
To hail this birth, what fiery tongues surround
Hell's Pentecost—what clamour of all cries
That swell, from Absalom's scoff to Shimei's,
One scornful gamut of tumultuous sound!
For now the harlot's heart on a new sleeve
Is prankt; and her heart's lord of yesterday
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem