If I walk the noisy streets,
Or enter a many thronged church,
Or sit among the wild young generation,
I give way to my thoughts.
I say to myself: the years are fleeting,
And however many there seem to be,
We must all go under the eternal vault,
And someone?s hour is already at hand.
When I look at a solitary oakI think: the patriarch of the woods.
It will outlive my forgotten
As it outlived that of my grandfathers?.
If I dandle a young infant,
Immediately I think: farewell!
I will yield my place to you,
For I must fade while your flower blooms.
Each day, and every hourI habitually follow in my thoughts,
Trying to guess from their
The year which brings my death.
And where will fate send death to me?
In battle, in my travels, or on the seas?
Or will the neighbouring
Receive my chilled ashes?
And although to the senseless
It is indifferent wherever it rots,
Yet close to my beloved countrysideI still would prefer to rest.
And let it be, beside the grave?s
That young life forever will be playing,
And impartial, indifferent
Eternally be shining in beauty.
