Translated by A. Z. Foreman - Lesson in Translation lyrics

My interpreter tried to bring to light The states that went unstated, The methods of design and indirection, The compulsion to explore, reach and arrive, (Once even reading something in my face.) Above all else she thought to plow the specific subsoil, to identify the bristle of roots, the burning morn of making. There were moments when an image drew her in, like trees in the morning singing their birds, or the incidental orchestrating itself, a delicate length of irony, a longing. The original, one may a**ume, is still the original, She did not transmute it into her own possession Or something else and other of mine. She seems to have held the lines with honor as usual, Their fidelity flowing from autumn to fall. That said, I question how even so careful, cool a text Can be turned mournful, defeating all peace of mine. Had I learned a lesson in translation?