There are days, estranged, in snow-folds
Who wrap them meditative.
Others in a wantonness, wreathed.
The troupe of Spring; well received.
Now yours, Autumn, I can never
Have too grouchy model for!
Nor too ragged, shuffling. Placed by
The smug-calm of Summer high.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem