BURNT OUT IS NOW MY MISERY
Martha Dickinson Bianchi translation
Burnt out is now my misery— love's yearning No more unspeakably torments my heart, Yet bearable alone through thee, my being— All thou art not is idle, stale and dying, Colourless, withered, dead,—save where thou art!
If I no more through false suspicion trouble Thy happiness,—nor more my blood inflames my veins, It is not turned to ice 'neath snowy cover, But free from jealousy, to thee thy lover Always with soul of ardour true remains.
So in their rapid fury mountain torrents That hurl them off their moss-grown altars steep, Seeking the flood with tossing, foaming riot— Here in the vale are bound in the old currents, To stream in future calm and clear and deep!