Crossing over vale and river 
 the sun chariot passes cleanly.
 Ah, it stirs in its course
 my agonies, much like yours,
 deep in the heart,
 always fresh each morning.

 Hardly does the night help me,
 for my dreams [bad word]  now in mournful aspect,
 and I feel these pains
 quietly in my heart,
 a secretly-forming power.

 Already, for many fair years
 have I seen ships sailing below,
 each going to its place,
 but ah! the constant agonies,
 firm in my heart,
 do not float away in the river.

I must appear in fine clothing
 taken from the wardrobe
 because today is a holiday;
 no one suspects the agony
 that in my heart of hearts
 is tearing grimly at me.

 In secret I must weep,
 but I can seem cheerful,
 even healthy and flushed;
 were these agonies fatal
 to my heart,
 ah, I would long since have died.