Perfect, from the Maker's hand, and pure
Did souls, straying off, deviant
Harden worlds' angel-fit erecting
To stepping-stones of perfecting?
Each through this wayward sense of freedom
By another's vain godly boast
Dropped, more dim, to an unending plight;
Til snatched back up of the true light.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem