It sometimes seems to me as if my blood
Flowed like a rhythmic fountain's sobbing flood.
I hear it run with a long murmering sound,
But vainly do I try to find the wound.

Across the town, as through the lists, it flows,
Transforming the pavement to archipelagoes,
Slaking the thirst of every living creature,
And staining red the various forms of nature.

I have asked often the insidious
Wine to put to sleep my wasting fear;
Wine makes the ear more sharp, the eye more clear !

I have sought in love for an oblivious
Slumber -- it's only a bed of needles whence pours
My blood to be drunken by the cruel whores!