SOFT dew-drop, glittering on the spray
O'er which the sportive breezes fly,
Ah little brilliant trembler, say,
Art thou a tear from Morning's eye?
Weep, lovely gem, till noon's hot beam
Expands thy sparkling form to air:
My woes shall be thy tender theme:
My love- my anguish- my despair!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem