Age, and what drifts on by it
Upon this Time-walked street.
Tress on tress, soft as feathers.
Vocal tones, trillings sweet.
Whom you've pitied sheds what now?
And is that face, sunward
Not to be demonstrated
As what's rapt, Heavenward?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem