That this shalt be thy bequeath
my old english in books thee keep
black hath turn all the soil
with my years of orthodox toil
John the Donne
will don the years of begun
when older will be the autumn of the grave
english will rave
We will hear your name
cripple and lame
mirrors of behest will noth
you are the broken glass we walk on
A poem is mere history begun
The poet is the mystery we are from
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem