Gold
Gold, the runaway, flies from me — always, always it eludes me! — flies on swift wind-swept wings. But I do not pursue it. Who pursues hatred?
Gold the runaway has gone; I cast my sorrows to the wind and sing love songs to the lyre. Yet when my soul seems to have learned disdain the runaway suddenly calls to me, bringing a draught of worry, and I lose my delight in the exquisite lyre.
Faithless, faithless gold! You cheat me with your treacheries. But listen! The lyre strings murmur rather of desire than of you.
You, the envious, the deceitful, set love of yourself in men's hearts, but the lyre mingles wine-cups and bridal-chamber kisses and dear desires —
You escape me when you wish and I am scarcely left the music of my lyre.
And instead of our own arts you prefer worthless foreign imitations — a Muse alien to me sounds the lyre for their hearts.
Gold the runaway has gone; I cast my sorrows to the wind and sing love songs to the lyre. Yet when my soul seems to have learned disdain the runaway suddenly calls to me, bringing a draught of worry, and I lose my delight in the exquisite lyre.
Faithless, faithless gold! You cheat me with your treacheries. But listen! The lyre strings murmur rather of desire than of you.
You, the envious, the deceitful, set love of yourself in men's hearts, but the lyre mingles wine-cups and bridal-chamber kisses and dear desires —
You escape me when you wish and I am scarcely left the music of my lyre.
And instead of our own arts you prefer worthless foreign imitations — a Muse alien to me sounds the lyre for their hearts.
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