In the courtyard, bewitched by milky twilight,

Through autumn-bronze gentle sick people glide.

Their waxy-round gaze ponders golden times,

Fulfilled with daydream and rest and wine.

Their wasting illness shuts itself in ghostly.

The stars spread white sadness.

In grayness, fulfilled by deception and ringing,

See, how the frightful ones scatter in confusion.

Formless figures of ridicule they shoo, crouch down

And flutter on black-crossed paths.

O! mournful shadows on the walls.

The others escape through darkening arcades,

And at night they fall from red showers

Of the star-wind, like raging Maenads.