A face, through each changeful look
Time's, is not hid from thee.
From out yond bean shoot, astounds.
Yonder skyline. Brashly!
That face, too oft contra wished!
In seeking out again
Love's walk, meadow-sweet. But too late.
Frost-clung; as with disdain.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem