It is unbearably painful for the soul to love silently.

I have long had this premonition of a bright day and a deserted house

I go forth to seek To seek and claim the lovely magic garden Where grasses softly sigh and Muses speak.

Forgive me, that I manage badly, Manage badly but live gloriously, That I leave traces of myself in my songs, That I appeared to you in waking dreams.

Flowers, cold from the dew, And autumn's approaching breath, I pluck for the warm, luxuriant braids, Which haven't faded yet. In their nights, fragrantly resinous, Entwined with delightful mystery, They will breathe in her springlike Extraordinary beauty. But in a whirlwind of sound and fire, From her shing head they will flutter And fall—and before her They will die, faintly fragrant still. And, impelled by faithful longing, My obedient gaze will feast upon them— With a reverent hand, Love will gather their rotting remains.

That was when the ones who smiled Were the dead, glad to be at rest.

Call me a sinner, Mock me maliciously: I was your insomnia, I was your grief.