I seek beloved traces
In the dun-coloured leaves --
Ah, everything dust,
Deserted and empty,
The empty branches laden with tears,
And above, the sky so grey, so grey . . . 
"Why do you call the dead, weeping woman?"
  Only a dream of dead days
  Shimmers through the pale air,
  A once-loved voice
  Rises whisperingly out of the sepulchre 
  A remembrance of blissful hours
  Looks at me with a still gaze,
  And in sunless vales
  Weeps a happiness that died too soon.
  The frost will come,
  The storm from the north will blow,
  And the last things, too,
  Shall pass into the grave.
  Oh, over the anxious, anxious time,
  When the soul of solitude,
  Memory, and yearning lifts its wings
  And in weary flight wafts away from here.