I do not want at all my sleeping eyes,
To see you all the time, nor do I wish to shake,
When my doors open. I do not want to think
Of you, not then, nor when the day is bright,
And least of all, I do not wish to make
Out in young belles' gazes, wide awake,
Delighted victory, contempt and stings.
I want no part in any of these things.
How come, thus far, in my indifferent peace,
I lived before, so wise, so self-assured,
With firm and quiet dignity I carried on my years,
At night from awful frights I stayed secure,
But very sweet indeed were moments we endured,
And waiting turns to wanting with shamed ease.
Translation mine. Original here.
