T'is work is one of my first English poems, about melancholy...
Now, on a silent summer night,
Caught me the melancholy.
I was walking, wandering,
Wondering 'where am I going',
On an empty dusty road,
That my legs solidly followed.
Through the shaky street lamps' light,
Just one single word was brought out,
By the blackguard of an endless sea,
Intruded from the deepest embassy.
'Élet', that was the foreign word,
Whose meaning ensnared the world:
La vie, Leben or any Life or birth,
Still just concepts holding little worth.
'Élet' I echoed by laughing,
And passed the road embarrassing,
Myself by thinking of that notion,
Which had never given me emotion.
A word which filled me with filthy void,
And made me unable to avoid,
Falling into a senseless sorrow,
Lowering me lower and more low.
I got to be hardly stressed,
Why this mysterious word pressed,
On me so cruelly the wrong,
Making me depressed a life time along.
Even I should have cried for resort,
I was still walking sine a sort,
In my mind that's not a garden of eden,
Or just I was, by myself, mistaken.
In some or other fairy way,
My road was riding further away,
Just as in Don Quixote's battle of glory,
I was walking against the Melancholy.