Нужен литературный перевод на русский. БЕЗ ПЕРЕВОДЧИКА. 

In Two Monts Now

In two months or maybe one
The sun will be a different sun
And earth that stretches white as straw
With stony ice will crack and thaw
And run is whistling stream and curve
In still blue-shadowed pools. The nerve
Of each pink root will quiver bare
And orchards in the April air
Will show black breaking white.
Red roses in green twilight
Will glimmer grosty blue and swell
Upon their vines with such a smell.
As only floats when the breeze is loud
At dusk from roses in a crowd.
A know thet there will be these things,
remembering them from other springs.
All shese and more shall soon be seen;
But not so beautiful as they
Seem now to be, a month away.