Your last beams, sun,
Why do they glow so redly?
All-conquering death usually 
Paints pale cheeks!
But you, in crimson hue,
Descend festively,
Golden-red fiery sheaves
Shine over your grave.

See the mountains, see the waters,
Look up to the firmament;
Everything basks in a sweet glow,
Everything flames and blazes and burns!
Even the dew in the chalice of the rose
Sparkles in a golden reflection,
And the sea, the boundless sea,
Immerses itself utterly in crimson!

Until the fire-pillars sink,
Quietly and gradually, silently and gently,
And the brown shadows beckon,
Be welcome, dear night!
And from the dark distances of heaven,
Like spilled gold from the sun,
Little pious stars shine,
And they nod gently and beautifully.

Apt parable of our days!
Like the last glowing of the sun,
At the sarcophagus of hope 
Let, oh Love, your torches spew [sparks]!
But when the night of pain nevertheless
Descends upon the wakeful eye,
For the forsaken heart there still
Sparkle stars of remembrance.