With silver-white hair, my eyes half closed,
   I sit in the quiet castle, an old troubadour.
   For naught the colourful May meadow renews itself,
   For naught has river and brook poured forth its waters crystal clear.
 
Whither, oh happiness, sprung forth from love and sorrow[,]
   Whither have you vanished?  Maniacally I seek your trace.
   A colourful chaotic sea is all that memory shows me,
   And the image of every flower has dissolved formlessly within it.
 
Vainly pondering head, leave off such nonsense,
   The past, too, no longer wishes to bring you roses;
   Lean yourself, ready for slumber, upon this withered hand.
 
Oh God, what do I feel there! the scar’s deep cord!
   Montalto, my thanks to you!  Now I can sing once more;
   Isula is my song, even at the edge of the grave.