The summer's visage; tis vein-ruptured!
Popping out of it, manic-pulsed
Eye of an evil heat's gore-burst;
None by noon have repulsed.
Water's saving grace, professing too late.
With spires of shade's cool aisles.
All bowls of thirst are urn-hollow.
Forests scooped for ash piles.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem