Since ye distemper and defile
Sweet Here by the measured mile,
Nor aught on jocund highways heed
Except the evidence of speed;
And bear about your dreadful task
Faces beshrouded 'neath a mask;
Great goblin eyes and glue hands
And souls enslaved to gears and bands;
Here shall no graver curse be said
Than, though y'are quick, that ye are dead!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I wonder what he'd make of todays highways? Last line proves this man had a mean streak.