As the clouds over the bliss meadow,
The wind of old in its greens,
As the waves in the crystal sea,
The sun dispersed in its blue,
All are passing.

The cloud ever in its grace and beauty,
Yet its shadow will pass,
And be remembered no more.
The roar of waves ever so revered,
It will grow and withdraw,
Till the pillar of sand vanishes.

There Apollo's carriage by the fire horses' mighty hooves,
Year by year so that men may rejoice in the light.
Yet when the moon rises and the laughter fades,
The lone wolf's cry will be heard.

Why are the stars ever so bright in their play?
Nay, play on, for the icy shadows suit me well.
Like a gray ghost in its perpetual wondering,
I wish to see the world, the world by the night sky.