Quietly mumbling to
Her lone, appeased self.
In garden corner, stilled.
Grotto, wondrous filled!
Sun's o'erbearing blaze
No father's warm pride!
Which smiled brightness, is his
Believe little one
Holds you, this moment
In its own noon-spell.
If rayed afar, askew.
If in secret, too.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem