To sink, betimes, below an archer frame- -
And here bely the hope to crave again- -
A deeper will, a calmer, quicker flame- -
Before the soul, in torpor, splits in twain.
To think the fates have spun a brighter garment,
then that of truths which bicker with content,
Near enough are we to some ill brink,
as to give substance to a physic pause
and grace our terror with a little ink.
And stare ope-mouthed at those chill jaws!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem