Unblown from off it, summer hill's
Tame cloud-blotched scanning
Each, that a placid look imparts
Is my own formed in.
Cow. Its aged cordon of tree.
Brooklet. Meadow bloom.
Hour by hour. Of which calm light
Dims not come eve's gloom.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem