My heart is in a gloom. Be fast, Oh bard, be fast!
There is a harp of gold:
And let your fingers, that on strings are cast,
Wake sounds of the God’s Abode.
And if a cruel fate kills hopes not at once,
They’ll wake up in my poor soul,
And if a drop of tears is, else, in my iced eyes –
Tears will be melted and will flow.
And let your song be grim and wild. Like my wreath, hard,
I hate the sounds of mad gladness!
I say to you: I crave for tears, Oh bard,
Or heart will perish from the sadness.
It was attended with some pain before,
Was, for a long time, pining, lonesome;
The strike of fate had come – it’s now full, therefore,
As a deathly cup is full with poison.