May's warm stirrings
Are always welcome. Yet they
Are juxtaposed with
These perennial, patterned
Glyphs of rain: which seem
To suggest misty futures
On my window pane.
The wind splutters its warnings
Across these dog days.
Now things are so out of joint.
And the seasons are
Markedly irregular.
I long for summers,
Of old, with their gold and green
Tainted pronouncements
Of sweetest order. Perhaps,
Such treasured times are
Merely inventions, just tricks
Of memory. Yet I
Tend to cling to them as I
Do to bold, lucid
Dreams in dreadful, starless nights.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem