Nothing to be sorry for, 
Nothing to regret; 
To ponder endless hours o’er – 
To worry, moan, or fret.
 
Naught of which to be ashamed
And wish had never been; 
To know that all things have a price
And wonder – what or when? 
Knowing that I’ve made a choice
And done just what I should, 
Why then do I feel bereft
Instead of smugly good?                
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem