The friends whom I kiss’d and caress’d of yore
Have treated me now with cruelty sore;
My heart is fast breaking. The sun, though, above
With smiles is hailing the sweet month of love.
Spring blooms around. In the greenwood is heard
The echoing song of each happy bird,
And flowers and girls wear a maidenly smile—
O beauteous world, I hate thee the while;
Yes, Orcus’ self I wellnigh praise;
No contrasts vain torment there our days;
For suffering hearts ’tis better below,
There where the Stygian night-waters flow.
That sad and melancholy stream,
And the Stymphalides’ dull scream,
The Furies singsong, so harsh and shrill,
With Cerberus’ bark the pauses to fill,—
These match full well with sorrow and pain.
In Proserpine’s accursèd domain,
In the region of shadows, the valley of sighs,
All with our tears doth harmonize.
But here above, like hateful things,
The sun and the rose inflict their stings;
I’m mock’d by the heavens so May-like and blue—
O beauteous world, I hate thee anew!