Winds sigh; nay; are shouted through
Til hoarse, a storm-warning
Of grief, likened to
In the raising of this thought;
Heaven's shamed outcast, dims,
Droops, wills self unsought;
Your flowers'. Sprung for a glory
Of life, especial to it
Blown, world's loss would be.
Incites all head-turns. Lone walked
For sweet uplift, strongest
Led-to sense imparts.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem