As under long, I've come to understand: 
How awful fearsome I have made you feel, 
In getting closer; arms yet open wide, 
And haply—momentar'ly—holding hope: 
That lit the way: thus I had not to grope, 
At first; but then all light abruptly died, 
And listened not to even one appeal; 
O Hapless Self, such woe you must conceal, 
Too smile, while wishing admiration'd slide; 
Unwilling to with raging feelings cope: 
I'd rather leave than sit around and mope, 
For feeling cozy's vain on alien tide; 
And I, at last, have come to terms that she'll, 
Nay, we'll not ever—No! —go hand in hand!                
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
 
                    