One thing seems clear: to translate a poem whole is to compose another poem. A whole translation will be faithful to the matter, and it will "approximate the form," of the original; and it will have a life of its own, which is the voice of the translator. The difference from original work lies mainly in the restriction of working upon matter that is already composed.
            The translator may misread his model in a number of ways; he may not see what is to be seen nor hear what is to be heard in it. But if he does see and hear clearly and fully, he will hold the original poem in a sort of colloidal suspension in his mind — I mean a fluid state in which the syntax, all the rigid features of the original dissolve, and yet its movements and inner structures persist and operate. It is out of these that he must make another poem that will speak, or sing, with his own voice.