Blue waves are driven by wind,
The leaves are driven,
And the clouds go hurrying dizzily over the sky.
Among the blown leaves he stands, and lifts his flute,
And trembles, and blows strange melody at the sky.
The music he plays is old blown leaves,
The notes are unevenly blown.
Sometimes it sings, sometimes it grieves,
Sometimes a querulous monotone ...
What does he see above red rooftops,
What does he see when he lifts his eyes?
Pale leaves loosened from bare black elm-boughs,
Pale leaves hurled from the hurrying skies, Death ... death ... death ... death ...
Beauty singing for beauty that dies.
Love was betrayed in the whispering garden:
Clear as white flame the maiden fled.
A shaft of moonlight dazzled the somnolent garden;
And among the white leaves love lay dead ...
Pale waves are driven to foam,
And the leaves are driven;
Among the blown leaves he wanders and lifts his flute.
Dust will cover the golden leaves of the maple,
The querulous praise will soon be mute.