I will be silent soon! But if in days of mire
I ever answered was by thoughtful play of lyre;
But if the silent youths, who understood me right,
Were marveling to years of my poor love's infliction;
But, just, if you yourself, in sweetest disposition,
The stanza, doleful, was whispering at night
And liked the voice, with which my heart itself discovers,
But if, o Lord, I'm loved -- let me, my dear friend,
Oh let me animate my lyre at the end
By a sacred name of one who was the best of lovers!
When I'll forever fall into the deadly dream,
Above my dismal urn, say with a good intention:
I loved this poor man, and I had breathed in him
His song's and love's the latest inspiration.