The seasons in their way present
a kind of moving monument
to quick decay. They've been before:
blurred hinge of 'in' and 'out' time's door;
the twirl, the swirl; the twinkled blink;
the flashed and frenzed whirl of wink.
But blooms of Herrick still remain.
His ladies sway in sun and rain.
His garden's far beyond mere time;
he sows his shoots of vining rhyme.
He knows: our sense of 'rake' and 'hoe',
what withers quick, what's slow to grow,
and so he grins, guffaws-there's sound!
His ladies chortle underground.
So blooms of Herrick still remain.
His ladies sway in sun and rain.
All lives, when planted, thrive again.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem