MARIA
Her hair is raven black, and her eyes are dark.
She wanders through the courtyard at dawn,
Among statues of white, on an emerald lawn,
Happy in the umbrage of the cloistered park.
Her face is of an angel's, and her name is of a song.
Her grace is gilded, meek and crowned.
She blesses the fountains, and all that is around
The vast, royal glen where the boughs are full and long.
And in the nascent evening, when the moon's rays keep
Their vigil of soft silver beneath the starry still,
We rove through slender grasses, to raptures on the hill,
Where her lips of scarlet wine bless me as they weep.
John Lars Zwerenz
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem