Now who's been stepping through the rye?
Don't scold the cat. I'll tell you why.
It's my tow-headed little laddie
Who toddled by.
Drawn by the poppie's bright-red hue,
Himself a slender cornflower blue
Amid the tall rye stalks my laddie
Was lost to view.
They'll sing to him about the grain
For which the world knows grief and pain.
But it's beyond his understanding –
The rey's refrain.
For him earth's full of radiant light,
Gay butterflies and flowers bright –
A butterfly himself, my laddie
In flitting flight...
The flowers he admired so much
Have faded, wilted in his clutch.
He's crying now. Of flowers my laddie
Has had enough!
Translated by Peter Tempest
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem