Everything is full of gold and we stand confronting a blinding glory.
The King: He founders! He founders! He falls!
He sinks towards the nether abyss.
It is not the Sun, it is the dreadfully flaming citadel of our hope!
And man will not make a higher ascent lest together his path and he plunge headlong!
You, springs, tomb of the forests where I have lived so long, branches charged with malediction, paths, deep-sunken roads,
See what injustice I suffer!
To-day I try in vain to escape from an innocent sepulchre!
And you, like an everlasting face,
Infinite riches of the year, world abounding in fruits,