Let not now stones our pathway strew,
nor block this winding trail.
The thistle wears its purple bloom;
Its spines don't make it fail.
Cold and so bitter blow the winds,
that dampen our desire.
Oh! How I wish to find the coal
to stoke once more that fire.
Sit now yourself here by my side;
partake thou of my flame.
Let's turn ourselves now from this path
and cast aside all blame,
and bow ne'er more before our wrath,
and nurse no more our shame.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem