Whether I am wandering along noisy streets, 
Or entering a crowded church
If I am sitting among boisterous young men
I fall into my revery

I say: The years will rush by, 
And how many I know not
We will all come down under eternal domes
And someone's hour is already at hand.

When I look at the solitary oak
I think: the patriarch of the woods 
Will outlive my forgotten century
As it has outlived those of my forefathers

If I am holding a sweet infant, 
already I think; Goodbye!
To you I offer my place:
For me it is time to decay, for you to bloom

Each day, each year, 
I have become accustomed to think ahead
Trying to guess which of them 
would be the year of my death

And where will fate send death to me?
Will it be in battle, in the waves?
Or will my neighbouring valley 
accept my cold ashes?

And although for the unfeeling corpse
It is all the same wherever it is to be reduced to dust, 
yet closer to my sweet homeland
Would I like to sleep

And at my grave entrance, 
may young life play
and indifferent nature 
with eternal beauty shine.