* * *

When down the noisy streets I’m walking,
Or when I stand as temple teems,
Or sit with mindless lads a-talking,
I still surrender to my dreams.

I tell myself the years are flying —
However many is our sum,
We all descend upon our dying,
And someone’s hour’s already come.

Upon secluded oak I glower,
I ponder that the forests’ sage
Will outlive all my feeble power,
As he survived my fathers’ age.

And when I cradle gentle baby,
“Forgive me!” is my only thought!
“I should give up my station, maybe;
For while I fester, bloom you ought.”

And every day as hours are passing
My habit is to try to guess
From all the years as they’re amassing
The one in which my death will press.

Where will I be upon my ending?
In battle or abroad? At sea?
Or will the valley’s edge ascending
Accept chilled ashes on its scree?

And though my lifeless corpse may moulder
Wherever it may care to rest,
Myself, I’m altogether bolder —
My homeland’s sweet terrain’s the best.

May entrance to my mausoleum
Be graced with young life’s joyous play;
Impartial nature raise Te Deum
And shine for ever beauty’s day.

1829