NEVER a leaf is shorn
But the vine surely misses;
From ministering night-dews torn,
From the sun's kisses.
Dozing the warm light in,
In cool winds rustling greenly —
A leaflet with its leafy kin
Dwelling serenely.
Not ever bud doth fall
With blighted leaves yet folden —
Never to wear its coronal
Or white or golden —
But from the mother - stem
Flutters a far, faint sighing:
Is it a tender requiem
Above the dying?
Who knows what dear regrets
Cling to the blossom broken?
Who knows what voiceless longing frets,
What love unspoken.
So through the summer - shine,
Your frail, brief lives securely
Keep, all ye tender blossoms mine,
Looking up purely.
Enough to breathe the air
Made sweet with your perfuming;
To see through golden days your fair
And perfect blooming:
The bees that round you hum,
The butterflies that woo you—
And happy, happy birds that come
And sing unto you.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem