In sea's ruffle, green heave of firs
Massed ram's, betwixt, high-clinging
You'd have these, storm-clear, make a show
Of your own frenzy-flinging.
While in mere bell, its all I've got
A mere zephyer to expose
Heart's ease, contains. No wild pleasure.
Just echoes of Time's repose.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem