The nymph who laments, guardian of our spring of tears,
Dares come only within the compass of praising, of song, -
She who watches over the settling of the precipitate,
That it be clear, on that same rock

That bears the gates and the altars. -
See, about her shoulders so tranquil there rises
The sensation that she must be the youngest
Of those sisters, to be disposed so.

Exultation knows, and fierce Desire acknowledges, -
Only Lamentation must still learn; with a maiden’s hand
She counts out the old sorrows through the night.

But suddenly, slantwise and unpractised,
She holds aloft a constellation of our voices
Against the heavens, left unobscured by her breath.