Last night the ladies had alarm:
their petaled parasols of charm
were drenched and torn against the fences-
wretched fate of splendid wenches-
for each was tossed upon the ground;
and grieving gardener raked the mound.
But Spring again teems with rebirth
and debutantes then scheme from earth-
designs on sky, pout on hades,
pretty plots do sprout with ladies!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem