To-day my pensive mood
I'll hide in song after song
I'll expose my soul turning
the thorny wound into a flower,

To forget your neglect
I will sing all the while
The greater the shocks
the more tuneful my violin.

If absent-mindedly the flower is torn
I'll make a garland of it
And give it to you as a
gift when you arrive

By the fountain of my tunes
I'll compose divine music
You'll bathe in the stream
of those tunes and arise

I'll strike a rhyme out of word after word,
oh poet are you content now.
Your mind is desolate, your empty,
your soul without joy.