All true feeling is in reality untranslatable. To express it is to betray it. But to translate it is to dissimulate it.
“Good Luck is the gayest of all gay girls;
Long in one place she will not stay:
Back from your brow she strokes the curls,
Kisses you quick and flies away.
But Madame Bad Luck soberly comes
And stays—no fancy has she for flitting,—
Snatches of true-love songs she hums,
And sits by your bed, and brings her knitting.”
John Milton Hay | after the German of Heine