The wind, which moves purple treetops,
Is God's breath that comes and goes.
The black village rises before the forest;
Three shadows are laid over the field.
Meagerly the valley dusks
Below and silent for the humble.
A seriousness greets in garden and hall,
That wants to finish the day,
Piously and darkly an organ-sound.
Marie is enthroned there in blue vestment
And cradles her babe in hand.
The night is starlit and long.
One of the greatest european poets ranked 465... what a shame... Rest in peace, my dear fiend and friend.* *
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
............thanks for sharing this wonderful poem...