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There’s a mirror likeness between those two

shining, youthfully-fledged figures, though

one seems paler than the other and more austere,

I might even say more perfect, more distinguished,

than he, who would take me confidingly in his arms –

how soft then and loving his smile, how blessed his glance!

Then, it might well have been that his wreath

of white poppies gently touched my forehead, at times,

and drove the pain from my mind with its strange scent.

But that is transient. I can only, now, be well,

when the other one, so serious and pale,

the older brother, lowers his dark torch. –

Sleep is so good, Death is better, yet

surely never to have been born is best.

