Classic Poem

I sat me down on the bench of weaving,
as long ago ... How many years past?
As long ago, she made place for me there
on the bench of weaving.

And not the sound of a word resounding;
only a smile with compassion filled.
The white hand leaves unguided the shuttle.

I weep, and say to her: However could I,
O my sweet life, be parted from thee?
She weeps, and answers, with silent gesture:
However couldst thou?

And with a sigh she draws to herself then
the enclosing frame of the silent comb.
Silent the shuttle moves forward, backward.

I weep, and ask her: Why then no longer
is sounding shrilly the weaving comb?
She gazes on me, timid and kindly:
Why then no longer?

And ever weeps she. . . . My sweet beloved,
have they not told thee? Thou dost not know?
Only within thy heart I am living.

Dead! Ah, yes, dead! If I weave, I am weaving
only for thee, and I know not how:
in this woven garment, beneath the cypress,
at last beside thee I shall repose.