By these starry dreams in which all the
night winds do compass,
Toward the rolling sills of woven cliffs
that tremble at winter's Mass,
I climb, do I climb, upon these hills
to kiss that winded breath of dreams;
And though not touched,
but these hands that stray they do commend,
To love each more,
yet leave each less not
blessed in fountain streams.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem