A thousand times I'm silent when I want
to shatter heaven screaming; others I
try hard to give my tongue its voice and life
and see it there in mortal silence lie.

Just like a speedy emissary run
my unbound thoughts directly to my soul
with strident tone and full of tearful pain,
like Orpheus who into death's sphere stole.

Neither my memory nor my hope can see
a trace of sweet or pleasing thought appear
which certainty in my life might create:

I only find in me a curse that nears,
a death that dallies, disconsolate tears,
Heaven's disdain, an oversight of fate.