When Luise burned the letters of her unfaithful lover

Generated by ardent fantasy;

in a rapturous hour

brought into this world - Perish,

you children of melancholy!

You owe the flames your existence,

so I restore you now to the fire,

with all your rapturous songs.

For alas! he sang them not to me alone.

I burn you now, and soon, you love-letters,

there will be no trace of you here.

Yet alas! the man himself, who wrote you,

may still perhaps burn long in me.