Dead love, by treason slain, lies stark,
White as a dead stark-stricken dove:
None that pass by him pause to mark
His heart, that strained and yearned and strove
As toward the sundawn strives the lark,
Is cold as all the old joy thereof.
Dead men, re-risen from dust, may hark
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem