There's this life and no hereafter -
I'm sure of that
but still I dither, waiting
for my laggard soul
to leap at the world's touch.
How many May dawns
have I slept right through,
the trees courageous with blossom?
Let me number them . . .
I shall be weighed in the balance
and found wanting.
I shall reckon for less
than an apple pip.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem