I have no thoughts of Robert Frost. His pen
Is master nor slave so what crown has he?
Are you aware of Elinor? Well then
Perhaps Ezra Pound, no let his light be.
I could recall a Nightingale, darkling,
But then, that stone in the desert will loom
Causing Lowell and Dylan to 'ped zing'
About childhood like John Clare would speak doom.
Why should I care how this throng set the pace
Of rhyme in songs sung by more or less dead
Poetry vagabonds who pretend grace
And ink old pages with their bleeding thread?
All from tears which cry to whet the souls eye
And beckon me sip deep amber field rye!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem