The bobolink that sweetly sings
Although the rain is on his wings;
The light in darkness of the moon
That builds by night another noon;
Mine, mine, mine, all mine!
The golden light in the sunset pine;
The flush green heart of the maple spray
When the sap comes up in the month of May;
The multitudinous, close advance
Of the singing grass and the little plants;
The deep, resilient, lusty feel
Of the turfy carpet under heel;
And a wakened heart, that lifts and fills
Like meadows in the April hills,
Or when the bottom and the plain
Are filled with the autumnal rain.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem