All that can be seen is nothing but a dream;
And even when we think ourselves awake,
We have only wakened in a dream
Of the multitude gliding into the grave,
Not many sprouted as tulip or rose;
But the loveliness of these visages
That were laid for eternal rest, who knows?
His the joyous night, his the slumber, his the
composure or conciet;
On whose arms are dishevelled your tresses. What a treat!
Its just a heart, no brick or stone,
Why should it not brim up with pain;
Let no one then oppress this heart,
Or I shall cry, cry again.
