An hundred warblers in the nearest aching gap,
it seems as though it loved its aching
filled with hyper-ikonistic misery.
I did not expect such staggering wealth
to come to me by dawn-delivered stealth,
though morning is the time and spring
the way love knows of its best being.
All through the leaves a burning
rush of gilded, swift, whirling wing.
All warblers of the world have come
to me, and are in me living
I only cool retreat and humble shade giving,
my leaves with excess of sun trampled.
I said an hundred warblers came
and now that I am clear, what it
was, was very near
it was but two, or three,
But how they fastened me.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem