Certain 'twill blow o'er
Winter's for moaned sort
In its own good time
This day's bad report.
Even now up through
Its own cleansing tears
Whilst smoothly as cloud
Despair for sun clears
Its face, in flower
Blessings absorbed in
The Earth sees itself
Lacking for nothing.
For what wings across
As high in mood wings
Renewed in spirit
In love with life sings.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
An interesting poem, well composed