I saw you seated by the flame.
You outshone in frame and name.
This hand for faint a line I blame,
That has not painted you too well.
I searched you in the jostling crowd,
Your being when I saw set my core aloud.
Such face as yours is not behind the Cloud
As Nature still has painted you too well.
Lest I give you o'erwhelming Praise,
The doubting Thomas would think me crazed.
They would not credit what my poor Tongue says,
Yet well they know my Tongue is not a useless Swell.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem