Flowers of the summer, you are still richly scented:
Winds of the grain fields in the tangy scents of sowing
You draw me after you along the desiccating terrain
I have become estranged from the "open sesame" of the proud gardens.

From out of what was forgotten you entice dreams: the child
Resting upon chaste earth-clods of the grain field
In the blaze of harvest beside naked reapers
By shiny sickle and emptied tankard.

Wasps sleepily rocked themselves in the song of noonday
And upon the [child’s] reddened brow dripped
Through the weak protection of the shade of the stalks
The petals of poppies: broad drops of blood.

Nothing that was ever mine falls prey to fugacity.
As soulfully as of yore I lie in the yearning meadow
From weary lips a murmuring: how I am
So tired of the flowers · so tired of the beautiful flowers!