Before Spring we stumble in our step
Without that freshness on the breeze
That through the Winter slept
That through all promises sees;
Before Spring we lie asleep
And wake to icy chills,
Through half-closed lids we peep
At harshened fields and hills;
Before Spring our senses dull
Become exhausted and moribund
In the charmless lull
That only April can refund.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Striking verse, like the stiff wind of winter across the face. Vividly and well captured. Bravo.