Fresh layed, with a white cloth
A plain table.
And so, do they partake
O'er tea, slow-stirred
Of the latest uptake
Of sweet nothings.
But comes that sobering weight
Again; fear-spread
For entanglement issues
What foreshadow.
In its cool light's drift for clues
Lace-weaved; evenings.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem