At times it might look and feel if the young
are truly living, are really happy,
as if to them the whole world does belong
in their bliss, even in iniquity;
some call ageing trifling, even paltry,
but in the eyes of the honest true love,
age brings a kind of great maturity
and nothing can the loveliness remove
which in each word and deed selfless express
the greatest kind of sheer loving kindness
when a heart does unwavering love possess
and love has a own unique blindness
that does overreach everything else,
a deep thing about which any poet tells.
[Reference: "Sailing to Byzantium" by W.B. Yeats.]
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem