To this pretend life, since most adapt
Through a bluff, a false boast
What then remains, sighs he, that's not apt
Or unable to lie?
Of reverence, a revelation.
Morn's bird-lifted; bloom-leant.
And what, his own fogged dream-worlds, up on
Rises for Love's bright eye!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem