be it a weakness, it deserves some praise
we love the play-place of our early days,
the scene is touching and the heart is stone
that feels not at the sight, and feels at none;
the wall on which we tried our graving skill,
the very name we carved subsisting still,
the bench on which we sat deep-employed,
though mangled, hacked, hewed not yet destroyed.
the little ones, unbottoned, glowing hot,
playing our games and on the very spot;
the pleasing spectacle at once excites
such recollection of our own delights,
that viewing it, we seem almost to obtain
our innocent sweet simple years again.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem