When Winter fell on subtle tides,
Resting upon foam and salt,
Swaying the ocean's sweet confides,
Finding where Autumn hides,
Crushing sentiments of revolt;
Come sand, small shells and stones,
Who rest upon the barren shore,
Seeing Winter draw the oceans moans,
Losing what dignity it owns,
which it won in Summer's war,
Then Spring, sprung and mad
On note of Winter's braves,
Drew a sword both good and bad,
Striking down Winter's armour clad,
Body upon the waves.
There lies Winter cold and dead,
And Spring alive and sown.
Had Winter won this fight instead,
And upon Spring have fed,
This warm ocean I'd never have known.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
beautiful. a majestic battle of nature's nobles.