Heaven's grief

Across the face of heaven wanders a thought,

that dark cloud there, so anxious, so heavy;

like a man sick to his soul in his bed,

the bushes whip back and forth in the wind.

From the sky comes a melancholy and languid rumbling,

the dark eye blinks many times,

(thus do eyes blink when they wish to weep)

and from the eyelid twitches a faint beam.

Now cool showers creep up from the moors,

and mists come quietly over the heathlands;

heaven dwells on its sadness;

and lets the sun drop from its hand.