The seeds in the Sower’s hand,
With time makes a reaper of him.
Better still the fallowed land,
And the barn may not contain.
I tell of an age-long Farmer,
The first to till the red soil.
A garden fair He made, by the pool,
The pool coolly behind the mansion.
He made, by the garden’s deep waters,
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem