Around my grave atood in a ring a bevy of fair mourners, all comely, winsome, lily-white.

The caravan of roses and of tulips has alighted in the garden. O wherefrom come so many things with bleeding hearts?

You seek good manners, learning, taste in the schoolroom. But no one buys wine from a glassware factory.

The teaching of the West’s philosophers increased my wisdom’s fund. The company of seers lit up my being’s very core.

Bring out the music which is in your nature’s make-up. O self-oblivious man, cast out of your head others’ tunes.

No one has realized that I too have some worth. I am a precious object fallen into the hands of blind men.