To you,
the debonair,
upon whom my glorious linger,
that thunder may wonder,
to all yonder ascension,
strike these aches with quakes of your lascivious beauty,
that all eyes that wander may to your perishment lust,
yet again tide by the wonders of your evening smile.
These gracious glory, and the wonderment of your story thence,
to forsaking all your guilty sakes.
My empress,
your Irish eyes yet again another confession.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem