My melodies leaned on their lyre's sweet thread,Like birds that pine upon the branch o'erhead.
They sang in spellbound, tranquil, soft release,As though recounting echoes of my grief.
Give, Life, your song's return—my songs are done;These notes alone shall be my benison.
I am the victim on the world's bleak stage,Where hopes appear unlike their heritage.
When life is darkness that will never end,And death is day whose light will low descend.
Book Details 
