Just dots and dashes line the cranium,
Like artfully arranged geraniums;
Coming hither, thither every compass-jointed day.
In the corpus land profundum,
You will find there nothing's humdrum,
As your brain cries out the words it's desperate to say.
From every venue they come streaming;
Word and phrase so ripe of meaning,
And they whistle strangely, as they disappear away;
On busy wharves and ways they're teaming,
Maybe pompous; over-weening,
Words at which your peace of mind is happy just to bray.
Edgar; Ed; its true I owe you,
And though this is nothing to you,
Since the land of dreams is where you reside to this day;
Dreams are where you wished to live; you
Scheming dreamer of the fibs who
Made of English temples, where we daily sing your praise.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem