Mighty Venice now has fallen low,
One hears no songs, no sound of festive balls;
On steps of marble and through gateways falls
The pallid moon's unearthly silver glow.
Okeanos there his sorrow calls...
In him alone eternal youth does blow,
Yet on his bride would he his breath bestow,
The waves break plaintively against the walls.
The town is silent as a burial ground;
Only the priests of bygone days remain,
Saint Mark tolls sinister the midnight round;
In sombre tones his slow sibylline strain
He nightly speaks with smooth and cadenced sound;
'The dead, my child, no more come back again'.
(Translated by Corneliu M. Popescu)