You
So often
Speak
Of
Night
Of
Dusk
Of
Pain
Of
Suffering
Of
Dawn
Of
Pining
Of
Fading
Of
Rattling
Skeletons
Of
Ghosts
Of
Shrouds
Of
Shadows
Marching
In
The
Cemeteries
You
So
Often
Speak
Of
these:
And
He
Then
Stopped
And
Bent
His
Head
And
Spoke
Not
For
He
Saw
That
There
Was
Beauty
There
Was
Minerva
At
Him
Frowning
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem