I had but one illusion — a pleasant fancy:
that of the river drawing to the sea
and yearning to be changed into a pool
an instant, and sleep in some old palm-tree's shade.

And my soul said: I go troubled and weary
of ranging plains and leaping over dikes;
now the storm is past; I need to rest,
to be azure as of old and murmur a song.

I had but one illusion, so serene
that it cured my ills and gladdened my affliction
with the bright gleam of a fire on the hearth.

And life: Soul, go troubled and alone,
no iris on your bank, no star in your wave,
range the plains and vanish in the sea.