I
What the cicadas sing
Made winter delay spring
And summer's late response
Eaten by autumnal winds.
II
Nothing would him so distress
As the silence of that dress
Rustling subtly through the grass
Over feet of windy glass.
III
That awful noon!
(How soon, how soon!)
I stand and wait
To greet the moon.
IV
'Cats fighting under my lattice'.
A fancy word that gets
Only to one at night that is
Trying to sleep with fighting cats.
V
All my verse may be
Stocked upon a shelf,
Yet it's best to be
Well versed on myself.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem