I saw Dante's Beatrice,
How like a verse that was born of Spring.
With lines of Hope, Warmth, a returning light,
And the deep joy of days to begin.
For she walked in fields of Summer sheen,
Like a graceful jewel on a clasp of green.
And where it was the flowers held court,
Those masters of allure.
Their beauty was dimmed,
For her radiance more pure.
And as the Sun rained down it cast ever anew,
Those laws of perfection fine poetry hold true.
Oh How the Graces must look to their sister in awe,
For she alone speaks of Heaven and more.
And would that hand were in my keep,
And not to whom her affections speak.
For if fate had crossed all Heavens plan,
My band of gold upon her hand.
For how could I not fall born with this will of mine,
It's gauze whisper thin,
And she divine.
Oh I've seen Dante's Beatrice,
And I know she'll never be mine.
These words, these lines, this marble verse,
Will forever be her Shrine.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem