Could I halt ‘tis waning Time
That out of Thy arms
Keeps dragging me a crime
Would I forever in Thy warmth
Pitch my tent. The papers lay
Ambush of me a siege:
The tramp of my slay
Or theirs my ears screech?
Rejoice! For whate’er the outcry
Of my battle may be,
‘Tis field I then laid paradisely
And now stand solacely
Deprived will ne’er, ne’er be
Nibbled away at my feebling memory.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem