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For in all of man's life there is no ideal,
Passions squandered on the dust of revelry,
All is not as it seems, and the better is far from here,
Speaking the truth within our silence,
Oh, mute are angels in our times of need,
Waste not and want not,
A heart is never firm,
And watching a mortal soul pass,
Is an honest pastime at best,
Lips sown shut at fear's regard,
And hesitation an illness in us all,
For this lonely man has also paused,
And watched others fade away,
To sleep we go, forever and a day,
As the wind blows through grassy hill and plain,
Through autumn woods and winter lakes,
A breeze of despair is crying,
Wailing to the ears of the trees,
Blissfully ignorant of the pain that it brings,
Here I and sorrows sit,
Bid kings come bow to it,
A tale of old longing its own affection,
As the human to life does so cling,
Memory of when you stood there,
Shyly and seemingly without concern,
Oh, only if time were a token of virtue,
And not a bitter adversary of yearning,
To see fondness form within one who had forgotten,
Forgotten that darkness steadies with the light,
Oh, hast thou come to seek an audience?
With he who has searched for exit from night.