At each daily start,
When Dawn drives the peal-pressed cart
Upon the rounded remote rim of sky,
The sight creates a glint-sung hymn:
Like the gleaming red rim of a goblet
Spewing its sweet silted rivulet,
Sprinkled with sun-reigned rays
Onto the solid ruled hue,
So turning it to yellow-pink yew.
All this... when two closing colors crochet
Into blue-bounded day.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem