Who is she appearing out a crowd of passing eyes?
Who springs new vibes with quickening trembled clearness?
Fool am I who contemplates her chances with unlikeliness
That she might walk in out of night to gift her bright surprise.
No, I think she is the kind to stray me modestly.
Tho' love is all her wandering seeks, so many she casts away.
Such wretchedness envelops he who cannot share her days.
So, I think new braver ways might charm her pleasantly.
But why, God, why, do my eyes shriek in her grace?
Since so far stricken from her sight amongst the crowd I hide
Myself away with visions, tormented sore with pride
So heavy upon me her love lies when shyly I seek chase.
Yet I still sense this strange delight enamouring her glow.
All troubled ills and woes she heals, despite uneasiness.
Wherein has she her beauty, and I my eagerness.
How ever was my mind so high, I doubt she'll ever know.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem