I LITTLE care to write her praise,
In truth, I little care that she
Should seem as pure in all her ways,
To others, as she seems to me.
At morn a sparrow's note we heard,
His shadow fell across her bed,
She smiled and listened to the bird;
And when the evening twilight red
Fell with the dew, he came again,
And perching on the nearest bough,
Higher and wilder sang the strain-
She did not smile to hear him now.
Many and many years, the light
Thin moonbeams, sheets for her have spread;
And scented clovers, red and white,
Have made the fringes of her bed.
Small care for sitting in the sun
Have I- small care to war with fate:
The wine and wormwood are as one,
Since thou art dead, my pretty mate.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem