Here are the brows of Quantock, purple--clad
With lavish heath--bloom: there, the banks of Tone.
Where is that woman, love--forlorn and sad,
Piping her flute of hemlock all alone?
I hear the Quantock woodman whistling home,--
The sunset flush is over Dunkery:--
I fear me much that she hath ceased to roam
Up the steep path, and lie beneath the tree.
I always fancied I should hear in sooth
That music,--but it sounds not!--wayward tears
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem