Be wise, my Sorrow; oh, more tranquil be! You yearned for day's decline; it comes, is here: Steeping the town, the darkening atmosphere Brings peace to some, to some despondency. While now base human multitudes obey The torturer's lash of Pleasure, never released, Go gathering new remorse in the slavish feast, My Sorrow, give me your hand and come this way- Come far from them. Now lean the departed years In outworn robes from the balconies of sky; Smiling Regret looks out from the waters' deeps; The dying light under an archway sleeps; And from the East, the long shroud trailing by- Listen, my dear-with soft step the night nears. |