Now the hen exults with beating wings
in her closed run, and the countryman
goes by the balcony, and the rising sun
throws its tremulous rays
on the falling drops
of morning rain that wake me,
striking softly on my cabin roof.
I rise and bless the light cloud,
and the first murmur of the birds,
the fresh breeze, the smiling slopes:
because I’ve seen you and I know you
too well, sad city walls, where hate
follows sorrow as its companion, and I
will live in sorrow, and so die, and soon!
Though Nature still shows me some rare
pity here, how much kinder she was
to me once! And Nature, you divert
your gaze from the miserable: scorning
misfortune and trouble, you serve
your queen, happiness. There’s no friend
or refuge left, in sky or earth,
for the wretched, except the knife.

      Sometimes, I sit in a lonely place,
on a slope at the margin of the lake,
that is wreathed with silent plants.
There, as noon wheels in the sky, the sun
paints his tranquil image, the grass
and leaves are unbending in the breeze,
and no wave wrinkles, no cicada ticks,
no bird lifts a feather on the branch,
no butterfly flickers, no voice or movement
can be heard or seen, near or far.
The deepest quiet grips the banks:
then I sit so motionless I almost lose myself,
and forget the world: and it seems to me
my limbs are so still, no spirit or feeling
can ever stir them again, and their primal calm
is merged with the silence of the place.

      Love, you have flown so far
from my heart, which once was warm,
red-hot rather. Ruin gripped it
with a chill hand, turned it to ice
in the flower of youth. I recall the time
when you pierced me. It was that sweet,
irrevocable time, when to youth’s eyes
the world’s unhappy landscape
smiles like a vision of paradise.
To a youth his heart leaps
with virgin hope and desire:
and he prepares for the task
of living, as a poor mortal
does for a joyful dance. But, Love,
I no sooner knew you, than Fate
shattered my life, and nothing seemed
right for these eyes but endless weeping.
Still, when I sometimes meet the face
of a lovely young girl in the open fields,
in the silence of dawn, or when the sun
shines on roofs and hills and meadows:
or when in the placid calm
of a summer night, my wandering steps
pass a rural village, I contemplate
the lonely earth, and hear the quick song
of a girl in her hidden room,
adding hours of night to her daytime labours:
this heart of mine, of stone, begins
to tremble: ah, but it soon returns
to iron sleep: so that all gentle feelings
are strangers to my breast.

      O, dear Moon, under whose tranquil rays
the hares dance in the woods: so the hunter
curses at dawn when he finds
false, intricate trails, and error’s web
leads him away from their forms: welcome,
benign queen of night. Your rays
pour down among bushes and cliffs,
over lonely ruins, and onto the knife
of the pale thief whose ears catch
the sound of wheels and horses
far off, or a clatter of feet
on the silent road: then suddenly,
with the rattle of arms, and loud cries,
and a dreadful face, he turns the heart
of the traveller to ice, whom he shortly
leaves, naked, half-dead, among the rocks.
You pour your white light on the city limits,
on the vile voluptuary, who hugs the walls
of houses and keeps to the secret
shadows, and stops, and is afraid
of burning lamps and open
balconies. Pouring down on wicked minds,
your aspect will always seem benign to me,
among these landscapes where you reveal
to my sight nothing but delightful hills
and open plains. Yet, once, I, innocent
that I was, accused your lovely rays
in peopled places, that exposed me to human sight,
and exposed human faces to my gaze.
Now I’ll always praise you, when I watch you
sailing through the clouds, or,
serene highness of the eternal realms,
as you look down on these pale human haunts.
You’ll often see me, silent and alone,
wandering the woods and the green banks,
or seated on the grass, content enough
if heart remains, and breath, for me to sigh.