May night

I run as a musk-deer runs

in the shadow of the forest

mad with his own perfume.

The night is the night of mid-May,

the breeze is the breeze of the south.

I lose my way and I wander,

I seek what I cannot get,

I get what I do not seek.

From my heart comes out and dances

the image of my own desire.

The gleaming vision flits on.

I try to clasp it firmly,

it eludes me and leads me astray.

I seek what I cannot get,

I get what I do not seek.