There's no more touching sight than
To witness young love first come to a man...
To see his wistful vacant stare,
To see him walk as if on air;
But it's something of a cruel pity
To hear him openly admit he
Doesn't feel dapper or suave or sporty,
And can hardly remember when he was forty.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem