Is this everything now, the quick delusions of flowers, And the down colors of the bright summer meadow, The soft blue spread of heaven, the bees' song, Is this everything only a god's Groaning dream, The cry of unconscious powers for deliverance? The distant line of the mountain, That beautifully and courageously rests in the blue, Is this too only a convulsion, Only the wild strain of fermenting nature, Only grief, only agony, only meaningless fumbling, Never resting, never a blessed movement? No! Leave me alone, you impure dream Of the world in suffering! The dance of tiny insects cradles you in an evening radiance, The bird's cry cradles you, A breath of wind cools my forehead With consolation. Leave me alone, you unendurably old human grief! Let it all be pain. Let it all be suffering, let it be wretched- But not this one sweet hour in the summer, And not the fragrance of the red clover, And not the deep tender pleasure In my soul.