After Spenser
I wrote your name upon Guerela Beach,
furtively on the lip of the last wave,
came the tide and washed it not away.
For a day and a night it reached not so high.
I carved a coronet of words and tossed
it in the deepest gulf beyond the rocks,
to be gathered up at the world's end.
Came fishermen and trawled it out eftsoon.
I learned a poet's love is not concealed;
it owns him and is pure, that others since
may praise your storm-dark hair, your marble skin,
your fragile ankle-line and fur-deep voice.
Yet secret is that siren, binding smile,
a child's surrender, mother's sanctity.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem