Pious the moss to see no more the ground;
For from this wasted wood forever gone
Is virgin who the milk and wine poured on
The earth to beauteous name that marked the bound.
The ivy, hop, viburnum, which around
This ruin gather, all to them unknown
Whether 'twas Silvan, Pan, Hermes or Faun,
Its maimed front their twining horns have found.
Behold! The ray, caressful as of old,
In its flat face has set two orbs of gold;
As though from lip, the vines bid laughter run;
And (mobile spell), wind murmuring blown,
The leaves, the wandering shadows and the sun,
Have turned to living God this broken stone.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem