As under long, I've come to understand:
How awful fearsome I have made you feel,
In getting closer; arms yet open wide,
And haply—momentar'ly—holding hope:
That lit the way: thus I had not to grope,
At first; but then all light abruptly died,
And listened not to even one appeal;
O Hapless Self, such woe you must conceal,
Too smile, while wishing admiration'd slide;
Unwilling to with raging feelings cope:
I'd rather leave than sit around and mope,
For feeling cozy's vain on alien tide;
And I, at last, have come to terms that she'll,
Nay, we'll not ever—No! —go hand in hand!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem