Nothing matters any more:

On the tired face of pain

I have bravely shut the door,

I who cannot love again.

Have my hopes been all denied?

Are my dreams unsatisfied?

Have I then for years and years

Loved and longed for you in vain?

Like a tomb I lie apart,–

It is truly very strange

How this restless human heart

Could have undergone this change.

Nothing makes me restless now:

On my calm unruffled brow

You can touch tranquility

Of a highborn mountain range.

Nothing matters more to me

Who am dead to joy and grief;

Like an uncomplaining tree

Widowed utterly of leaf,

Beggared of all bloom, I stand

Empty heart and empty hand. . . .

Winter-whiteness creeps across

Me whose Spring was very brief.