The world is a many mouthed flute, and each single player
Blows his own tune, and their concert makes sad refrain,
In which I cannot find a note of my own flute's prayer.
And you? Perhaps you too have tapped on many a pane
And were as I sent packing with cold disdain.

Yet, I have dreamed, and hoped, and written confessions,
Seen Flanders, the Alps, and Strassburg on the Rhine.
I have loved and beaten the drum in many processions,
Pored over old books and sipped their wisdom's wine.
I have busily stirred these hands and feet of mine.

And the upshot? I retained what cannot be taken:
The solace of my own song when, alone, I play
A ditty at night where the sea on the dike comes breaking,
Not for the universe or eternity, just for today.
That's another glad moment won, and that's much, I would sai.

Translated by Adriaan J. Barnouw