British poet Shelley's poem, also translated as "To——"
There is a word that is often abused,
I don't want to abuse it anymore; < /p>
There is a kind of emotion that is not valued.
How can you despise it again?
There is a kind of hope that is too similar to despair,
Even prudence cannot crush it;
I only ask for mercy from your heart,
It is extremely precious to me.
What I offer cannot be called love.
It can only be regarded as worship.
Even God is willing to favor it.
I think Should you stay out of sight?
This is like a moth yearning for the stars,
The dark night wants to embrace the dawn,
How can we not let the miserable world
face the distance? Love things?