He was Childe Harold pacing there
The dark deck of that exile-ship,
When twenty years scarce fringed his lip,
Pacing in a boy's despair.
He was Don Juan, not too soon
Sent from the glimpses of the moon.
And had he lived a little longer,
He would have risen greater, stronger;
King of the Greeks, he had been then
Agamemnon, King of men.
Yet not the best of warriors he
Who crossed towards Troy the Ægean sea.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem