The night is fair, without a breath of wind,
And on the roofs and gardens full of peace
The moon reposes and reveals afar
Each mountain all serene. O my beloved!
The haunts of men are silent; in their homes
Rarely doth glimmer a nocturnal lamp.
Thou art asleep, by gentle slumber wrapped
Within thy quiet room; no carking care
Disturbs thy rest; nor dost thou know or think
How deep a wound thou openedst in my heart.
Thou art asleep; I sally forth to greet
The firmament, to gaze on so benign,
And Nature, mighty in her ancient ways,
Who made me but for woe. "To thee be hope
Denied," she said, "even hope; and in thine eyes
No other light, save that of tears, may shine."
This day was full of pleasure; from thy pastime
Thou now dost take repose: perchance in dreams
Those who pleased thee and whom thyself did please,
Thou seest; but not I, for all my hopes,
Occur unto thy fancy. I, meanwhile,
I ask myself how much of life remains
For me to live, and here upon the earth,
Moaning and shuddering, do I throw me down
In utter desolation. O ye days
So full of horror for such early years!
Ah, woe is me! Upon the road not far
I hear a workman's solitary song;
After his joyaunce, in late hours of night
He is returning to his poor abode;
And bitterly my heart is rent in twain
When I consider all on earth doth pass
And leaveth not a trace. Behold! the day
Of joy is gone, and to its festive hours
The day of toil succeeds, and time doth take
Whate'er belongs to man. Where, where is now
The pride of ancient nations? Where the fame
Of our renowned forefathers, and the vast
Dominion of old Rome, the clash of arms
Resounding o'er the ocean and the earth?
All now is peace and silence, and the world
Is wrapped in rest, and speaks of them no more.
In those beginning years, when eagerly
We seek the festive day, I lay awake
When it was over, tossing full of grief
Upon my bed; and in late hours of night
A song I heard upon the road without,
Expiring in the distance by degrees,
With equal sorrow rent my heart in twain.