Adam Mickiewicz (1798–1855)

Translated by Richard Garnett

EASTWARD, the sun arises clad in gold,

Westward, the waning moonbeam disappears;

Like spreading fires the rose’s buds unfold,

The violet droops, borne down by dewy tears.

My Laura, from her casement, bright and glad,

Shines forth upon me, on my knees I bow;

Winding her golden tresses, Why so sad

The moon, she asks, the violet, and thou?

’Tis eve, how changed! with added glory burns

The orient moon, and, now no more forlorn,

The violet drinks the sweet reviving breeze;

And Laura to her oriel returns

In lovelier garb, with dearer charms, and sees

Me sad as erst she saw me in the morn.