Sweet peace, sweet delight of grass,
Of its aroma breathed about me:
Deep draught, deep, deeply drunk draught.
When the clouds above are clearing,
When upon my tired, dizzy head
Sweet laughter flutters down,
When a dear voice murmurs and drops
Like Linden blossom onto a grave.

When, in the breast, the dead then
Stretch their bodies and stir,
Softly, softly drawing breath
And move their lashes from closed,
Dead love, dead desires, dead time,
All the treasures reduced to dust,
Stir with a timorous sound
Like bells that chime in the wind.

Hours, more fleeting they than the kiss
Of a ray on a lake of mourning;
Than the song of a passing bird
Falling like pearls from above;
Than the flash of a shimmering beetle
Hurrying over a path in sunlight;
Than the warm press of a hand
That for the last time lingers.

Yet, heaven, always to me
This one thing only: for the song
Of every free bird in the blue,
A soul that flies with it;
And, for each meagre ray
Of my colourful shimmering hem,
The clasp of my hand in another;
And for every joy is my dream.

Translation by: David Paley