The Moon puts on her silver veil
And shawl of lace: and with far lutes
And violins in many a dale
The thrushes blow their woodland flutes.
Oh, and with many a ghostly cheer,
Under the moon the forest heaves
And sways with ecstasy to hear
The eery laughter of the leaves.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem