Here, in this little Bay,
Full of tumultuous life and great repose,
Where, twice a day,
The purposeless, gay ocean comes and goes,
Under high cliffs, and far from the huge town,
I sit me down.
For want of me the world's course will not fail:
When all its work is done, the lie shall rot;
The truth is great, and shall prevail,
When none cares whether it prevail or not.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I love the simplicity and accessibility of Patmore's poems. Although he can sometimes be a little over-sentimental and is very much a product of his age, Angel in the House being a supreme example of both unfortunate traits, at other times he has perfect expression.