(with apologies to A.E. Housman)
They say my verse is bad: no wonder,
its measure too narrow spans
tidings of eternity, and of no tomorrow
neither mine; nor man’s.
Whenever ill-treated I bellow
about what I have not and have got,
for those who read to be of trouble
as if a poet, I am not.
[Reference: “They say my verse is sad, no wonder” by A.E. Housman.]
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem