I have constructed in my soul
A marvellous palace,
Full of scents of cinnamon,
Full of rippled reflections.

Sapphire, amber, emerald
Cover the pillars;
In silence there, prowl
Some sociable lions.

From ivory goblets,
On thick carpets,
Monarchs in groups
Drink golden wines.

Insulated like an island,
The palace walls plunge
Into the tranquil surface
Of a lake of quicksilver.

And everything seems immobile,
And yet everything is magnified,
Spreading out, like an oil spill,
It rises and deepens;

And over the mute waters,
And from the noiseless palace,
A reflected flame shoots up and
Grows brighter.

But, amidst all this enchantment,
Two things are problematic:
Within nothing sings, and
The sky is black above.

Oh, for the sound of a lyre,
Oh, for the palest blue,
I could forget this porphyry,
Fine pearls, and pure gold.

But the only thing that would restore them,
With a love sweet and cruel,
Forbids me my crown
Of harmony and heaven;

And so everything shines, everything rises,
Everything grows vast and beautiful,
The more the pain subdues me,
The more I am in my grave.