I saw a crowd of flowers in bloom,
On my way: too lazy of
To stir myself and pick them too,
I rode on by, on my proud horse.
Now, when I’m wretched and I’m dying,
Now, when my grave’s already aired,
Often in memory, painful, mocking,
The scent of flowers I scorned is there.
One, especially, of fiery yellow,
A violet, burns inside my head,
How I regret I never
Had that sweetheart in her bed.
My solace:
Lethe’s water
Even now, not lacking in its powers,
Refresh the foolish heart of Man,
With sweet forgetful midnight hours.
