The songs, that amidst pain and joy,
Flowed forth freely from my youthful breast,
They echoed on, I feel it,
In the hearts of those to whom they were dedicated;
Be still, my heart, and bear the loss,
They rang out, they died away in time;
My loving and my life have died away
With my songs; around me it is cold.

Life has, death has robbed me,
Friends leave me, [or] they die,
Already my head droops low and lower,
Dreamily I set my staff upon my onward journey,
And totter, more tired than people would believe,
Toward my goal, my grave.
There is little wheat, [but] much chaff:
I picked flowers, [but] gathered only hay.

That which was my wont to do, I do it still today,
I pick flowers and I gather hay;
People call it the pursuit of botany,
And I am loath to call it anything else;
Thus roves a human [searching] for dry booty
Through life and through the world,
Rue catches up with him, and as he looks back,
Evening is falling, his hair is already grey.

Thus, brother, I shudder on my mad pathway
When gloomy fogs rest on the murky ocean;
I call lovingly to ice-covered rocks,
The cold masses echo back emptily;
In language and in life I am the man
Who weighs every syllable if it be false or heavy;
I return home as I departed,
A child, already ensnared by old age.

When once again the fluttering crown of the palm tree
Rests in the deep blue, borne aloft by a slender trunk,
[When] from the bright heights the mighty sun gazes
Down upon the joyful earth in a pure blaze,
Then shall my stiff limbs, warmed-through, become supple
And my blood shall flow to my heart less sluggishly,
Then perhaps shall the darksome dreams pass away
And I shall be able to give you my hand without lamenting.