Girls, be good to these spirits
Of music and poetry,
And lift the lyre so clear and sweet
They need with you (?)
But as for me, this body,
Which is now so arthritic:
I cannot play,
I Can barely even hold the instrument,
And oh,
The song grows heavy with the body
Some gloomy poems
Came from these thoughts
And useless,
We are all born to lose life,
Like we lose our youth
And oh,
The song grows heavy with the body.
And so I stepped in quite clearly
From my hiding place
To then suspect
That she would grow old and grey
And he despaired in his mortal way and said
Oh,
The song grows heavy with the body.