Pity, please, compel me
Not this cheek of her's
To wipe; not just yet.
Whose tear-shaped crystal beauty
Pains that pass offset.
Alike Spring who, as loud
On what glosses a bud
Rainily lets pour.
Callously insensible
Was it then? No more!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem