The Leaves of Grass, is in man's desires long,
Before he gains consciousness of what it reads;
It is earth's fire and flowing tears, each song,
Each one sought in application and needs;
The road he walked and stones he stumbled on,
All search he made in confronting, and crossed;
For everything he reaches and has done,
And likewise things in efforts he has lost.
Leaves of Grass, is not mere a leaf in book,
But more experience of all search combined,
And faith you have to carry them on through.
All the years it gave more days it then took,
Of conclusions to reach and comfort to find,
Gave us what we are - the making of you.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem