The workings of my sorrows,
Is to the better of my soul.
The multitude of errors,
Is of learning to behold.
For rare does a man excel,
In the joy of constant praise.
It's in trouble that character dwells,
Or in the hardship of his days.
So worry not my friend, upon the soul of happiness.
Much better is one with sadness, than a heart of ugliness.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem