Creepest thou with thoughts so lofty on a woman’s footsteps lowly?
Look at her through lighted windows how, surrounded in a ball
By a swarm of idle fellows, frivolous she smiles at all?
While they wink with understanding, and the while she flirts with these,
With such foolish adoration thou before her door wilt freeze?
And with passion love her, faithful, thinking that she is delightful,
While like April she’s capricious, while she is so cold and spiteful?
In thy dreams embrace her always, all consumed with holy fire,
And from top to toe caress her in thy thought, and to admire,
To adore like a Madonna painted by a Raphael,
While she is so cold, coquettish?—’Tis ridiculous, mark well!
Yes… anon I dreamt so often of the only one to love me,
Knowing that I understand her, she would stand inclined above me,
Like a muse when I am thoughtful, I should feel her near me, near…
Our whole life would be a love-tale, like a fountain pure and clear.
No, I seek her now no longer… Why should I? The same old song,
Thirst for quietude eternal, this is all for which I long;
But the instrument is shattered, midst disordered screetches wild,
As in night the spring soft murmurs, that old song is heard so mild.
Here and there a voice, though faintly, sounds as clearly as before
From a Carmen saeculare which I dreamt in times of yore,
But the whole now whistles, screetches, jars with broken sounds so dire,
Wildly driving, tossing, whirling, rolls tumultuous on my lyre.
My poor head is waste and burning, in my thought the winds howl strong,
Harsh and shrill is still resounding that eternal, endless song…
Where are they, those clear, light moments of my poor life now so sad?
O the instrument is shattered, the musician now is mad!
