They say that the plants do not speak, not the brooks, nor the birds,
Nor the waves with their roar, not with their brilliance the stars,
So they say: but one cannot be sure, for always when I go by,
They whisper about me and say
Good-bye rivers, good-bye fountains;
Good-bye, little rills;
Good-bye, sight of my eyes:
Don't know when we'll see each other again.
When I think that you have parted,
Black shadow that overshades me,
At the foot of my head pillows
You return making fun of me.
From the cadenced roar of the waves
and the wail of the wind,
from the shimmering light
flecked over woodland and cloud,
I know not what I seek eternally
on earth, in air, and sky;
I know not what I seek; but it is something
that I have lost, I know not when,
between the earth and sky that keep
like a rushing headlong torrent
life passes on.
Feeling her end would come with summer's end,
the incurable invalid
thought with mingled joy and sadness:
"I shall die in the autumn,
He who weeps goes not alone,
Keep flowing, I beg of you, my tears!
A single burden suffices the soul;
One joy is never, never enough.