Below the bridge, the arch, drear
Waters flow, and dirty and in the
Grass rustle fat black rats.
Of course it be evening: the sun
Is set down; and red dusk
Brings blushes to the faces of the day.
Declining, declining, the waters plough
The ticking of the time their motion
The sick Poet-Seer by the banks pacing.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem