I went too late to the party-
The evergreens were too full of herons,
Restive,
Not at the end of the migrations,
In the wake of monarch butterflies-
I grew beautiful,
Too late, too early;
Or she was a child, or she was married
In little houses in the rain-
With little lights;
She would go out sometimes and smoke,
And I watched her from the sea,
Shivering- too cold to make out,
But every one there was good and famous,
And they told me it would be better
For me to go along the way;
And her eyes were sad, but forgetful,
And they seemed to tell me
To be along my way.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem