Let springtime come then, when it will,
with verdure greenest,
with flutelike song
of myriad birds,
when all that blossoms
and all that is freshest, loveliest, fairest
waves and flutters away 
over meadows, away over fields,
budding in gardens and hiding in woodlands,
shedding its fragrance on waters and waves.
Yet not for me! 
My heart is neither leaf nor blossom
and springtime cannot bring me joy:
I must await my own spring. 
When? When?