When Orpheus silverly stirs the lyre,

Lamenting a dead shape in the evening garden,

Who are you resting under high trees?

The lament rustles the autumnal reeds,

The blue pond,

Dying away under greening trees

And following the shadow of the sister;

Dark love

Of a wild race,

From which the day rushes away on golden wheels.

Silent night.

Under sinister firs

Two wolves mixed their blood

In stony embrace; a golden shape,

The cloud lost itself over the footbridge,

Patience and silence of childhood.

Again the tender corpse encounters

By the Triton pond

Slumbering in its hyacinthine hair.

That the cool head would finally burst!

Because always a blue deer follows,

An eyeing shape under dusking trees,

The soft insanity

Of these darker paths,

Waking and moved by nocturnal harmonies;

Or the string-play sounded

Full of dark ecstasy

At the cool feet of the penitent woman

In the stony city.