Now are all things made new.
Yet I shudder.
Treed for all this bloomage;
All these faces.
Day's healthy light within;
Beauty, Youth, joint-hung in
Garden places.
Though harmless, what through each
If warm, now blows
It only serves, for Change
What's felt brewing.
And downcast, premature
As o'er gravesite's future
Walk off; stewing.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem