No longer reigns, over hearts
Regards what leans, of feeling
Pious-inclining?
Erect this tree, and light it.
What for a shrine's holy blaze
Draws; as divine in.
Miens, soft as adoration
Instant, from out year's dark woe
Of dim faith will glow.
Marked with child-like acceptance
With one concern: its placement;
Angel's. High not low!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem