You are still sending your dreams into the distance,
as if in its wondrous breadth you see
the gold bird of happiness fluttering about your head . .

and in the meantime the sunshine that you gathered
along the way runs from your hands,
and heedlessly you let it glide upon the ground . . 

until you waken and see stretched out behind you the pathway,
so beautiful, as you never perceived it,
with gleams of sunshine between the flowering shrubs . . 

At the end [of the path] it seems as if a bird were flying
With uncertain, fluttering wing-beats,
[a bird] that grows ever smaller, quite small, and now fades into nothing . . 

Before you the pathway goes on, grey and dreary . . 

But, weeping, you cover your face with your hands,
and wearily you weep for your happiness . . .