Written today, and read today,
And stale the news tomorrow!--
Upon the sands I build... I _play!_
I play, and weep in sorrow:
'Ah God, dear God! to find cessation
From this soul-crushing occupation!
If but one year ere Thou dost call me Thither,
Lord, at this blighting task let me not wither.'
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem