Never more lonely than in August: 'tis

a time of plentitude-of lands

ablaze with red and  golden brands-

and yet, where is your garden's bliss?

Lakes shine, soft is the heavens' roof,

the field are clean and gently lambent,

yet in the realm you represent,

where is your triumph and the proof?

Where luck alone proves all mankind

and glances are exchanged and rings

in wine smell, in the lust of things:

you serve the counter-luck-- the Mind.

Trans. E.B. Ashton