If the unfortunate fate engulfing me,
The ending of my history of grief,
The closing of my span of years so brief,
Mother, should wake a single pang in thee,
Weep not. No saddening thought to me devote;
I calmly go to a death that is glory-filled,
My lyre before it is forever stilled
Breathes out to thee its last and dying note.
A note scarce more than a burden-easing sigh,
Tender and sacred, innocent, sincere -
Spontaneous and instinctive as the cry
I gave at birth - And now the hour is here -
Oh, God, thy mantle of mercy o'er my sins!
Mother, farewell! The pilgrimage begins.