Be good, my Sorrow, quiet your despair.
You call for Evening; it descends, is here;
Around the town, a darkness in the air
Promising peace to some, to others care.
While most, the rabid multitude of men,
Lashed by their Lust, in merciless torment,
Gather remorse on slavish holiday,
My Sorrow, take my hand and come away,
Away from them. Look, as the Years lean down
From heaven's porches, clothed in ancient gowns;
Regret, in smiles, looms from the water's depths;
Under an archway sleeps the dying Sun.
And, like a shroud swept to the Orient,
Listen, my dear, the sweet Night walks along.
Přeložil James McGowan