By the light of the peonies a voice sounds up from the marble floor:
And on the wall is that Yes, that’s B, my friend, my dearest
And the porch stairs where I just There the author's ticker skipped it, yes
And a small glass of sherry with lunch That’s what I’m used to, but sit yourself down, let’s just see if you’re made of the right stuff.
And you can scarcely know how grateful
You can scarcely know how untranslatable your words are for me. But I will do my best to teach you mine. No, no more questions now.
Here’s the assignment: Digest the deposit of thirty years of this translating urge —Done already?
Then you may begin. I’ll top you up, sorcerer’s apprentice, and then I’ll read back your latest version.
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