Love, the baby,
Crept abroad to pluck a flower:
One said, Yes, sir; one said, Maybe;
One said, Wait the hour.
Love, the boy,
Joined the youngsters at their play:
But they gave him little joy,
And he went away.
Love, the youth,
Roamed the country, quiver-laden;
From him fled away in sooth
Many a man and maiden!
Love, the man,
Sought a service all about;
But they called him feeble, one
They could do without.
Love, the aged,
Walking, bowed, the shadeless miles,
Read a volume many-paged,
Full of tears and smiles.
Love, the weary,
Tottered down the shelving road:
At its foot, lo, Night, the starry,
Meeting him from God!
'Love, the holy,'
Sang a music in her dome,
Sang it softly, sang it slowly,
'Love is coming home!'
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem