I thought the sweet troubles
of my first youth were lost,
after my fresh springtime:
all the sweet troubles,
all the tender feelings,
of my deepest heart,
all that in this world
makes us glad to feel.

      What grief and tears were
scattered, in that new life,
when the pain first ended
in my frozen heart!
Every tremor ended,
love faded in me,
and the sighs diminished
in my icy breast!

      I wept for life, deadened
by me, and earth
made barren, locked
in eternal cold:
empty the day, silent
the night, lonelier, darker:
the moon quenched for me,
the stars quenched in the sky.

      Yet the old affection
was the source of weeping:
my heart was still alive
deep in my chest.
Wearied imagination
searched for old visions:
and my sadness
still brought its pain.

      Soon that last grief
was quenched in me,
and no strength was left me
to mourn any more.
I lay there: senseless, stunned,
not asking for solace:
as if dead, forsaken,
my heart abandoned.

      How different I was
from him who once nourished
such ardour, lovely error,
deep in his soul!
The wakeful swallow
singing in the dawn light,
outside my window,
did not move my heart:

      nor in pallid autumn,
in the lonely farmlands
the evening chimes,
or the fugitive sun.
I saw twilight shine
in vain on silent roads,
in vain the valley echoed
to the sad nightingale.

      And you, tender eyes,
furtive, wandering glances,
you, immortal love
god of gentle lovers,
and you bright, naked
hand placed in my hand,
you too countered my
solid stupor in vain.

      Robbed of every sweetness,
sad: but not troubled,
my state was peaceful,
my face was serene.
I might have wished for
the end of my existence:
but all desire was quenched,
in my exhausted breast.

      Like the poor bare remains
of a diminished age,
so I lived through
the April of my years:
O my heart, I suffered
those ineffable days,
that heaven allows us,
so brief and so fleeting.

      Who has roused me now
from my deep forgetful peace?
What new power is this,
that I feel inside?
Sweet tremors, visions,
throbbing, blessed error,
surely you are denied
to my heart forever?

      Are you really that lone
light of my days?
The affection I lost
in earliest times?
In the sky, on green banks,
wherever vision gazes,
all breathes sadness to me,
all gives me delight.

      The fields, woods and mountains
return to life as I have:
the fountain speaks to my heart
the ocean speaks to me.
Who brings back my tears
after such long neglect?
And how can the world
appear so changed to me?

      Perhaps, O wretched heart,
hope turned to you with laughter?
Ah, I shall never see
the face of hope again.
Nature’s tremors were innate
in me, its sweet illusions.
My sufferings lulled
my inborn powers to sleep.

      But fate and misfortune
did not annul or conquer:
nor unhappy truth
with its darkened face.
I know it does not match
my wandering fancy:
I know Nature is deaf to us,
and knows no charity.

      She is not truly careful
of us, only our survival:
provided we endure grief
she cares for nothing else.
The wretched man discovers
no pity from mankind:
so that in his flight
every mortal scorns him.

      And this sad age is free
of intellect or virtue:
and there’s no true concern
now for naked glory.
And you, trembling eyes,
you, celestial rays,
I know you shine in vain,
love cannot burn in you.

      No secret, no intimate
affection can burn there:
that white breast hides not
a single glowing spark.
Rather it mocks at
other’s tender feelings:
disdain is the reward
for that celestial fire.

      Yet still I feel the old
known illusions:
and my soul marvels
at its own tremors.
In you, my heart, this last
spirit, and ardour is born:
and all my solace
comes from you alone.

      I know that fate and nature,
beauty and the world,
fail the noble spirit,
the gentle and the pure.
But if you’re alive, poor heart,
if you do not yield to fate,
then I’ll not call her pitiless,
she who gave me life.