In its translation, this poem does not rhyme,
Nor do its lines possess much of a metre,
And yet its lilt has something of the chatter
To be heard around the overpriced café
Where its translator likes to spend his time
Discoursing to the waitress on the way
He matches sentiment to syllable
To convey the tang of the original.
‘Ah! It must be wonderful to have such skill
In another’s language that one can translate
Its poetry to ours and not to wait
On tables’, says the waitress with a laugh
So fetching he might overlook the spill
Of wine between his glass and her carafe.
