Crossing over vale and river the sun chariot passes cleanly. Ah, it stirs in its course my agonies, much like yours, deep in the heart, always fresh each morning.
Hardly does the night help me, for my dreams themselves come now in mournful aspect, and I feel these pains quietly in my heart, a secretly-forming power.
Already, for many fair years have I seen ships sailing below, each going to its place, but ah! the constant agonies, firm in my heart, do not float away in the river.
I must appear in fine clothing taken from the wardrobe because today is a holiday; no one suspects the agony that in my heart of hearts is tearing grimly at me.
In secret I must weep, but I can seem cheerful, even healthy and flushed; were these agonies fatal to my heart, ah, I would long since have died.