I SEE the millet combing gold
From summer sun,
In hussar caps, all day;
&nbs; And brown quails run
Far down the dusty way,
Fly up and whistle from the wold;
Sweet delusions on the mountains,
Of hounds in chase,
Beguiling every care
Of life apace,
Though only fevered air
That trembles, and dies in mounting.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem