Vexed by pain and doubt I ran into the woods
And there among the trees I cried
Hoping vain fool that trees would be thus pricked
To answer to my calls, betraying then
All that they knew about my lady-love.
Vain fool I! Thus left in doubt poor doubt
That all alone was left for company cried
And lo! Remorse in dress funereal black
With eye severe and cowling haughty look
Entered into the room where I lay and raved:
At which now have I tormentors twain
To prick and vex me: but myself console I
That my enemies are twain because of me.
I will not cry of cruel fate at least.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem