The ruined palace

How wildly foams the torrent,

the wind howls in the pines.

The rats flying from my presence

run into their holes under stony caverns.

What proud monarch of old dwelt in this palace proud,

where but remain some falling ruins

that on the mountainside are crumbling?

And fairylike fire flickers in ghostly flame.

Hear you not the moaning, the cries of anguish?

How savagely in nature's concert

the Ten Thousandfold voices wail.

How they sorrow more dismally than autumn.

The master who once dwelt here had dancers many and youthful,

and now they are gone and but as whitened ashes.

Where are now his war chariots fleet?

Of all this glory, of all this royal splendour, what does remain?

But one marble stallion, that lies mid ruins.

All my grief and my melancholy would I could render with the words of a poet.

But my heart fails and my paintbrush trembles.