Angels of rain and lightning spread

On the blue surface of Thine aëry surge

Like the bright hair from the head of some fierce Maenad

From the dim verge of the horizon to Zenith's height

The locks of (the) coming storm

Thou dirge of (the) dying year, this closing night

(Will) be the dome of a vast sepulchre

Vaulted with all Thy might

Make me Thy lyre, (even) as the forest (is)

My leaves are falling like its own!

The tumult of Thy mighty harmonies

(Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone)

Sweet (though) in sadness

Be Thou, Spirit fierce, my spirit! Impetuous one!

Drive my (dead) thoughts over the universe

Like wither'd leaves to quicken a new birth!

By the incantation of this verse

Scatter, as from a fire's hearth

Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind!

Be through my lips the trumpet of the prophecy!