I gave to her a marigold
Plucked from the sea cliff bank;
Her eyes grew wild and chilly cold
At I so bold and frank;
She put the flower in her book
And handed it to me;
Then strode she off, the grass it shook
As she marched along the sea;
The golden flower that I had killed
In my sudden lover's rush,
Lies withered on the grassy hill
‘Mid the nettles in the brush.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Beautiful and truthful.