I know beginnings, I know endings too, and life-in-death, and something else I'd rather not recall just now.

Now no one will listen to songs. The prophesied days have begun. Latest poem of mine, the world has lost its wonder, Don't break my heart, don't ring out.

The secret of secrets is inside me again.

Your voice is wild and simple. You are untranslatable Into any one tongue.

I seem to myself, as in a dream, Am accidental guest in this dreadful body.

I know beginnings, I know endings too, and life-in-death, and something else I'd rather not recall just now.

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.