Roving, that's pursuing the routes
Habitual,is friendly, civil.
Nothing of conspiring, closing in.
Behind each swarming no sniffed ill.
With one thought, straying, hooked sly; and
Are deftly slung precipitous
Down some o'erfolding dark, especial
To one's fear-nature, unconscious.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem