What is known, is known – known gently,
meekly, mildly, sweetly; that’s the experience
that men bring back who’ve seen that creature plain.
But since the unicorn grazes in all our minds and hearts,
each has his image. Poets love to write of that creature
as they picture it; but what of those who met it plain
in forest glade, upon the hills, or white amidst the waves?
It’s said that, then, some poets put away their pens forever or awhile,
despairing that their word-hoard holds no words
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem