LII
Josef Štýbr translation
My pillow was of sorrow made My sleep were tears, free flowing; Go easy, my heart—not so loud: Deep penitence I’m showing. The moon comes by the window in, Gown’d in her deathly pallor, And in the heart a song died down As of a bird, sad caller. Dear moon, light up the stars on high; Let dew descend on flowers; Awake from sleep the nightingale, But men—let sleep their hours! You carry off the gorgeous love— You know the calamity; I am now but a wretched man— Ah, pity, pity, pity!