Beyond the rocky staircase, where tripping streamlets drop
And slipping, slithering landslides fall from heathery hillsides steep,
Under a leafy shelter, where rough limestone rocks outcrop
Down in the hidden hollow, cut by wrathful waters deep,
Of Duerley Beck’s deep chasm, above small, sleepy Gayle,
In Wensleydale’s wild wilderness above the heights of Hawes.
Shine shimmering, silver curtains, deep dwelling in the dale,
The watery white-lace apron of ancient Aygill force.
Remotest of the fosses, far from the tourist paths
In summer, just a trickle, mere misty droplet sprays
But passing by in winter, it rivals wide Aygarth’s
Famed cataracts, admired by all who tread those less-known ways,
Delighted to discover, trudging through the muddy track,
The glittering magnificence of humble Aygill’s flood.
Whose experience enlightens and shines through stormcloud’s black
And leaves enchanting echoes that keep calling back for good.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem