by Friedrich Hölderlin
Grant me a single summer, you lords of all,
A single autumn, for the fullgrown song,
So that, with such sweet playing sated,
Then my heart may die more willing.
The soul, in life robbed of its godly right,
Rests not, even in Orcus down below;
Yet should I once achieve my heart’s
First holy concern, the poem,
Welcome then, O stillness of the shadow world!
Even if down I go without my
Music, I shall be satisfied; once
Like gods I shall have lived, more I need not.