English Rendering
In sleep, the perished things the heart obeys
Return; in wine, a pageant of false days
Confounds the sight — rich, glittering, and untrue.
O, I am sick of this too‑tender mood,
This fever of the soul, this lyrical blood!
To be of marble, and to feel no ache,
How blessèd were such frost, for pity’s sake!
