Is parting now such sweet sorrow?
I think it’s not if, tomorrow,
(As goes the old cliché, so true)
We, to fresh fields and pastures new
Will pursue our way, determined
To make the best of it, with wind
Full in our sails to drive us on,
Forgetting what is lost and gone.
Since, is it, surely, our own fault
If we turn to pillars of salt
Through looking back, too respectful
Of all that went before, minds dull
To possibilities ahead?
If we look back, we’re good as dead.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem