Since, of days, yours most are commendated
Life itself, not wrongly, feels vindicated;
Among them who, out of deserts snow-lined
Are led by you, whose staff, woodbine-entwined.
Even among these who would, of the sun
'A gold calf' make; who dizzily do run
Before their god, 'casting vestments away';
And 'eat and drink, and who rise up to play'.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem