'Four seasons fill the measure of the year
There are four seasons in the mind of man'
John Keats - The Human Seasons,1818
For two hundred years you have lain here
Under the ground, dead
While we still into your mind peer
To find out your fear and dread;
The seasons pass over and over again
The trees shed their leaves, the ices melt
Breezes blow, unseen the rain
The sun scorches on earth unfelt;
And still we agonise, still we bleed
Still the years drift into the past
Still every spring we cast the seed
Like hopes over your grave broadcast.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem