Now the sweet eves are withered like the flowers of October
What should we tell the willow, and the reeds, and the lagoons!-
My soul forever has grown gray and sober;
What should we tell the dunes?

The wind arising comes without a word discreetly:
Fresh with your kisses is my brow;
The night-as mothers comfort sweetly-
Comes with a cradling kiss to greet me,
What should we tell the willow now?

While the spring bloomed you were my king, my Poet,
You with your sweet words were the King of Hearts;
But while we two were laughing, did we know it,
That both of us were playing ancient parts?

O you and I, did either of us know it?
-Now all is gray where we would go-
We with our false and honied laughter?
What knew we of the dark times coming after?
What did we know?

There were old poems, doubtless, singing to me;
To you, old tales of fortune crowning doles;
'You love me then?-I love you!-Love me truly!'
Were we so young to laugh at our own souls!
What should we go and say now to the dunes?
What to the willow, to the reeds, lagoons?
-The moon is rising in pale aureoles-
Our hearts forgave, and died like misty moons.