Wild Clematis - the name keeps
Slipping out of memory;
It is fixed now as an old man's beard
Bedraggled like a toothless grin.
Its winter's tale is seasons old: hoary,
Wise-looking and thin,
It wears its heart upon its sleeve,
The luminous quality of its aging leaves
Laden with a crop of dew
And downwards bent as if to weep.
It reminds me of weak memory
And want of life anew;
Death, I have always feared
And the chill runs through and through.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem