Entangled in my twisted roots,
Below this grassy lea,
There lies a man whose soul has sailed
Across the moonlit sea.
Yet sometimes in my treeish sleep,
Entwined with stars and streams,
A whisper of the west-wind weaves
A vision through my dreams.
I am walking in the wood beyond the field,
In the bluebell time of Spring.
The sun is warm upon my leaves,
And on my boughs the birds sing.
Or I am rooted in meadow grass,
Below me people lie,
Eating good food, drinking fine wine
And breathing contented sighs.
But then I wake. The vision goes,
And I am left alone.
The leaden clouds above me float;
The bodies sleep below.
Yet, through the winters cruellest frost
I feel that summer breeze,
That wanders over the western wave,
And whispers through my leaves.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem