Others make verses of grace.
Mine are all muscle and sinew.
Others can picture your face.
But I all the tumult within you.
Others can give you delight,
And delight I confess is worth giving.
But my songs must tickle and bite
And burn with the ardor of living
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem
Excellent. We are living in fortunate times when we can read at the touch of a button such great writings as this! I cannot argue with his argument- his love is deep and true.