I am like a remnant of a cloud of
autumn uselessly roaming in the sky, O
my sun ever-glorious! Thy touch ha
not yet melted my vapour, making me
one with thy light, and thus I count
months and years separated from thee.
    If this be by wish and if this be thy
play, then take this fleeting emptiness
of mine, paint it with colours, gild it
with gold, float it on the wanton wind
and spread it in varied wonders.
    And again when it shall be thy wish
to end this play at night, I shall melt
and vanish away in the dark, or it may
be in a smile of the white morning, in a
coolness of purity transparent.