Let us try our hand at translation then, that futile game: is this joy embittered, a happiness spoiled, or is it a commingled and confused mess, equal parts bliss and despair?
Try a third option, a synthesis: a joy born from unhappiness, from dwelling on loss, a kind of melancholy dreaming.
The mind recalls Hardy's verses:
Woman much missed, how you call to me, call to me,
Saying that now you are not as you were
When you had changed from the one who was all to me,
But as at first, when our day was fair.
Can it be you that I hear? Let me view you, then,
Standing as when I drew near to the town
Where you would wait for me: yes, as I knew you then,
Even to the original air-blue gown!
Or is it only the breeze, in its listlessness
Travelling across the wet mead to me here,
You being ever dissolved to wan wistlessness,
Heard no more again far or near?
Thus I; faltering forward,
Leaves around me falling,
Wind oozing thin through the thorn from norward,
And the woman calling.