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As my days pass in the crowded market of this world and my hands

grow full with the daily profits, let me ever feel that I have

gained nothing-let me not forget for a moment, let me carry the

pangs of this sorrow in my dreams and in my wakeful hours.

When I sit by the roadside, tired and panting, when I spread my

bed low in the dust, let me ever feel that the long journey is

still before me-let me not forget a moment, let me carry the

pangs of this sorrow in my dreams and in my wakeful hours.

When my rooms have been decked out and the flutes sound and the

laughter there is loud, let me ever feel that I have not invited

thee to my house-let me not forget for a moment, let me carry the

pangs of this sorrow in my dreams and in my wakeful hours.

80.

I am like a remnant of a cloud of autumn uselessly roaming in the

sky, O my sun ever-glorious! Thy touch has not yet melted my

vapour, making me one with thy light, and thus I count months and

years separated from thee.