From out the country that he loved
the yellow primrose blurs the land,
each woodbine quickens every strand.
The harebells dip for one removed.
And you, old warder, still remain
to clutch and coil the sullen form,
to etch and trace for winding worm
a life once sunlight in the grain.
For in Love's duties Time took pause
to globe or orb our separate spheres.
Now's all divided hemispheres
in skies that answer other laws.
Yet still will Death make unity
of jagged fragments of our world,
and high as hollyhocks be hurled
a silly bag of turds like me!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem