Again the hour's late at night,
or maybe just dusky early mourn'.
Twilight seeming many ages past,
as my path brings me to you.
Minutes to spare I have only few,
as dawn's nightmare's approaching fast.
As if stung by love's eiry thorn,
I'm hauled by some other-worldly might.
You're safety is; that you'ld never ask.
Should I shed my heart spoon by spoon;
you'ld probably seek it to swiftly pass
like a witless cloud on a sunny day in June.
And so there's no other refuge
to which I would rather turn
Before in the coming sudden deluge
of July's Sun I will wither and burn.
So I bid you for a little bed of marked soil,
the peace of shade where a tear I'ld spoil.
I have no grandeur, no beauty, just a final hour
during which I'ld be your a little flurried flower
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem