The Amateur Poet.
My darling urges to write a poem,
And praise her beauty, her name,
And to say the readers how I love her,
And an oath to be under her cover.
I confessed with an warmth embrace,
Ah! Yes, poetry comes from a lady's grace,
All poets' make the lady the muse of their story,
And in her absence fades away their poetic glory.
Petrarch for Laura dug infatuations well,
Shakespeare could not consume the Dark Lady's cable,
And Tagore fabricated his lost love-tale.
Who am I the deuce to write a Bible
Let me be a puppet in your booklet,
And paint the dances of your whims,
With all flattery of yours in my rime.
I claim no prospect of my fate,
You would make me an amateur poet.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem