You now want only so little,
  My poor, quiet heart;
  Silently over valley and meadow you carried
  The deep inward pain.
 
There was a time when
  The unclouded glory of fame,
  Yes, even the fullest reward of love
  Could not have assuaged your yearning.
 
Back then the youthful bosom was still
  Full of discontent
  In the proud premonition of future delights
  And the glory of victory.
 
Ah, soon the magical splendor
  Of free imagination paled!
  Fate brought me battle,
  But never the joys of victory.
 
Yet I bore my bitter sorrow
  Quietly and resignedly;
  For often heavenly Apollo came
  To comfort me, the tired one.
 
Back then, little flowers, too, bloomed for me,
  Beautifully, but only rarely,
  In the starlight that shone upon
  My pathway through the joyful lea.
 
The light is gone, the flowers all
  Wilted and scattered.
  Where would I twine a fresh wreath
  In desolation and darkness?
 
You flee from me, oh friendly smile,
  Through the night; you shimmer
  That oft to the wildly agitated spirit
  Brought peace as well as courage.
 
Farewell, farewell!  I depart quietly,
  And piously and purely tell my sorrow to
  Her who shall not betray me,
  To the sweet Muse alone.