One's ardour, Nature, makes you bright,
One finds within you mourning, grief!
What speaks to one of tombs and death
Says to the other, Splendour! Life!
Mystical Hermes, help to me,
Intimidating though you are,
You make me Midas' counterpart,
No sadder alchemist than he;
My gold is iron by your spell,
And paradise turns into hell;
I see in winding-sheets of clouds
A dear cadaver in its shroud,
And there upon celestial strands
I raise huge tombs above the sands.