I am like a remnant of a cloud of autumn uselessly roaming in the sky, O my sun
ever-glorious! Thy touch has not yet melted my vapour, making me one with thy
light, and thus I count months and years separated from thee.
If this be thy wish and if this be thy
play, then
take this fleeting emptiness of mine, paint it with colours, gild it with gold,
float it on the wanton wind and spread it in varied wonders.
And again when it shall be thy wish to end this play at night, I shall melt and
vanish away in the dark, or it may be in a smile of the white morning, in a
coolness of purity transparent.