(Written in her sixteenth year.)
The destroyer cometh; his footstep is light,
He marketh the threshold of sorrow at night;
He steals like a thief o'er the fond one's repose,
And chills the warm tide from the heart as it flows.
His throne is the tomb, and a pestilent breath
Walks forth on the night-wind, the herald of death!
His couch is the bier, and the dark weeds of woe
Are the curtains which shroud joy's deadliest foe.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem