I suffer
when I see the firs and oaks
in Hastings Gardens open to
the blasts of so many
storms.
There
even the crackling of a thunder
fear spreads.
And
in the lightning shines and then
goes dark again
the monument in the garden
yet
in serene nights of moon
kindly and pitying plays
the moon-light.
Even in dread are Hastings Gardens
beautiful.
Even in wildest storms and gales
are Hastings Gardens magnificent
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem