Alone amid the fields without a friend I stood,
While Time, like a ploughman, drove the sun to the west.
Yon horizon, gorgeous with the crimson-fading crest,
Filled my frame with joy, the joy of solitude.
Solitude came early to that growing lad,
He was not good at games, but bookish, lacking pals,
Homing birds he saw and listened to their calls;
A loner to be sure, but seldom lonely-sad.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Just lovely! I see that lonesome lad, lost in his own world, but never lonely or sad! A 10 for this crisp write, neither tedious nor made obscure by semantic exuberance or twist!