If I had had the fashioning of you,
I would not have you any different;
For even now I feel the shaping bliss
Course through my fingers as in thought's
Rehearsal I presume to mould you thus.
Poor sculptor, hacking to eliminate,
He cannot know, like me, the quickening
In the palms' nurture, as the seed
Glows warmly into carnal fruition -
The exponential function of a poem.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem