When I was young I woke gladly in the morning
With the dew I grieved towards the close of day.
Now when I rise I curse the white cascade
That refreshes all roots, and I wish my eyelids
Were dead shutters pushed down by the endless weight
Of a mineral world. How strange it is that at evening
When prolonged shadows lie down like cut hay
In my mad age I rejoice and my soul sings
Burning vividly in the centre of a cold sky.