It was a great plum pleasure,
To see that striking mill of measure,
And treasure her signal dancing old,
Winding peaceful into cold;
Mine marrow chilled to my core,
Till I could not bear to stand it more,
So stand it not as I fell,
And dragged myself into hell;
When the wind arrived and I awoke,
I stared at her and Dancer spoke,
And she asked what I'd become,
But I had no voice and answers, none.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem