Time, who nurse-like, morn's curtain
In spreading apart
Slowly accommodates us;
To what, for shocks, at conscience
Send their fiery dart.
What this age begs more of, lit
More burningly perverse
Are thus less affected by.
As numb to, as yet asleep!
More deadly adverse!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem