When first the Covid plague had laid me low,
Methought I'd been in Tartarus below;
My teeth did chatter, naught could warm me there;
I gasp'd, I choked, I fought in vain for air.
The quicksilver stood calm, and said, 'Not ill.'
My legs did fail… and O, that bitter chill…
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem