Grant me just one summer, powerful ones, And just one autumn for ripe songs, That my heart, filled with that sweet Music, may more willingly die within me.
The soul, denied its divine heritage in life, Won't find rest down in Hades either. But if what is holy to me, the poem That rests in my heart, succeeds — Then welcome, silent world of shadows! I'll be content, even though it's not my own lyre That leads me downwards. Once I'll have Lived like the gods, and more isn't necessary.
