Such jealousy has seized

this poetry,

for I have spent many

a watchful night upon it,

that methought each rhyme

would murder the other

British translation.

I have become more humble

than a subtle meaning

beseeching sublime

understanding

Poetry is but allusion,

suffice it to intimate,

Poetry is not prattle

or long oration

If poetry were perishable,

poetry sung in praise

of your generosity*,

in years past,

would have exhausted it

But poetry is the rain clouds

of the mind

When such clouds dissipate

others will follow behind

* Lit. collected in your watering troughs.