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Is it life, is it life, that all these years,
We've been living, tasting, and calling good?
Ah! Your eyes are full of tears!
The wood has caught you, the magic wood.
Something breaks down where the wood begins;
Something breaks down in this hidden spot!
What are our virtues? What are our sins?
It matters not! It matters not!
Round the boulders the ripples play.
The dead trunks, lying the stream across,
Catch the sun in a lovelier way
Than the living plants or the living moss.
Death, what is it? What do we care?
It is strange. It is magical. It is well.
Give me your hand — tie up your hair —
If I kissed you, the wood-gods would not tell!
