Age, thou the loss of health and friends shalt mourn!
But thou art passing to that night-still bourne,
Where labour sleeps. The linnet, chattering loud
To the May morn, shall sing; thou, in thy shroud,
Forgetful and forgotten, sink to rest;
And grass-green be the sod upon thy breast!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I'll pass on this proferred delight, thank you very much! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !