My childhood was nought but a ravaging storm, Enlivened at times by a brilliant sun;
The rain and the winds wrought such havoc and harm
That of buds on my plot there remains hardly one.
 
Behold now the Fall of ideas I have reached,
And the shovel and rake one must therefore resume,
In collecting the turf, inundated and breached,
Where the waters dug trenches as deep as a tomb.
 
And yet these new blossoms, for which I craved,
Will they find in this earth—like a shore that is laved—
The mystical fuel which vigour imparts?
 
Oh misery!—Time devours our lives,
And the enemy black, which consumeth our hearts
On the blood of our bodies, increases and thrives!