I sat at the entrance to a temple
At the Muses' grove, a nearby waterfall resounding,
In the soft light of evening.
Not a breeze stirred, and the departing sun
Gilded the dull weeping willows.

Quietly thinking, I sat there for a long, long time,
With my head resting on my right hand.
I thought about the future and the past, and I saw
On a mountain close to the throne of the gods
The abode of the sacred race,
The singers of ancient and modern time,
In whose song posterity still takes pleasure.
Dead, unnoticed and long forgotten, they sleep,
Far in the valley's dark depths,
The idols of their time,
In the giant shadows of impermanence.

And slowly drifting, comingout of that dark valley,
Emerging from a rotting meal for heroes,
There appeared a sinister form,
And it offered (as it sort of passed by),
In a chalice garlanded with poppies,
From Lethe's spring, it offered me oblivion!

Stirred, I wanted to ask the apparition,
"How can this drink be useful for me?"
But suddenly it had fled: I saw it with a quiet grudge
For I could not renounce my desires.
Then in a jolly dance, with steps as light as a zephyr, along came
A small guardian spirit. It sprang up
And gestured and called to me, "Come with me.
Break away from those fearful shades
Which even block out the sunshine of truth!
Come with me! I shall lead you to that laurel grove
Which none of the uninitiated have yet penetrated.
A beautiful unfading poet's wreath
Is blossoming there for you in the cheerful glow of spring.
There it is, embracing a branch of myrtle."

This is what he said, and he hurried forward.
I followed, fully trusting the beautiful youth,
Happy in my sweet delusion.

The most solemn silence now reigned
In the whole grove. The long desired goal,
Brightly shimmering, I could already see it in a distant cave in the shadows,
And I stood, completely lost in feelings of bliss.
"Take it," (he now said), " it is Apollo's will.
Take up this golden stringed instrument.
In the most painful hours it has the power,
Through its magical tones, to heal all the wounds
Inflicted on you by misfortune and strange delusion."
With tender, stirring chords,
It resounds from the south to the north
Faster than the speedy flight of time.
Be proud, be proud of what you possess, and think,
"Of all the things the gods lend to mortals
This is the highest gift!"
And you are not going to desecrate it.

Not yet entrusted with its full power, 
I first sang small songs;
And Echo replied strongly and joyfully.