Often on the mountain, in the shadow of the old oak tree,
at sundown, I sit down sadly;
I let my gaze wander over the plain
whose ever-changing scene unrolls at my feet.
Here roars the river with its foamy waves,
coiling and thrusting into the dim distance;
there, the motionless lake stretches its sleeping waters
where the evening star rises in the azure sky.
On the summit of these mountains, crowned with dark woods,
twilight still casts its last ray;
and the misty chariot of the queen of shadows
climbs, already whitening the rim of the horizon.
And now, ringing out from the Gothic steeple,
a religious sound fills the air;
the traveler stops, and the rustic bell
mingles holy music with the last noise of the day.
But my indifferent soul feels no charm or thrill
at these sweet scenes;
I contemplate the earth like a wandering shadow.
The sun of the living does not warm the dead.
From hill to hill, in vain, my glance turns,
from the south to the north wind, from the dawn to the sunset,
I turn through all the points of this vast expanse,
and I think, "No happiness awaits me anywhere."
What do they do for me, these palaces and cottages,
useless things, whose charm for me has fled?
Rivers, rocks, forests, solitudes once so dear,
a single being is missing, and everything is unpeopled!
Whether the sun's journey is beginning or ending,
I follow its path with an indifferent eye;
in a dark sky or a cloudless one, whether it sets or it rises,
what does the sun matter? I expect nothing from the days.
If I could follow the sun on its endless journey,
my eyes would see emptiness and desert everywhere;
I wish for nothing of all that it lights up;
I ask nothing of the immense universe.
But perhaps beyond the bounds of its sphere,
in places where the true sun lights up other skies,
if I could leave my carcass on the earth,
what I have so dreamed of would appear to my eyes!
There, I would be drunk from the springs I hope for;
there I would find hope and love again,
and that ideal goodness that every soul desires,
which has no name in its sojourn on earth!
Borne by the chariot of the dawn,
could I not fly as far as to you, vague object of desire?
Why should I stay in the land of exile?
There is nothing in common between the earth and me.
When the forest leaf falls in the meadow,
the evening wind rises and tears it away from the valleys;
and I, I am like that withered leaf:
carry me off like the leaf, stormy north winds!
Originally Posted by Potato
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