I move as acted on by things,

Day and night, without cessation,

And I don't know when I'll come

To an end of my circling. Clearly,

I am completely framed here,

And even one who fancies that

He knows that what is appointed

Cannot be determined beforehand.

I am in this way daily passing on,

But all day long I'm communicating

My views to you, . . and now

When we are shoulder to shoulder,

Face to face, you don't even try

To understand my point --

Is it not the matter for lamentation?

You are able in a measure to set forth

What I more clearly set forth, but

That is passed away, and you look for it,

As if it were still existing, just as if

You were looking for a horse

In the now empty stable

Where it was formerly exhibited for sale.

You have very much forgotten

My affection to you, and I have

Very much forgotten wherein

I loved you. But, nevertheless,

Why should you account this

Is but my old self; that which

Cannot be forgotten remains

With me as the new; and you

Must try and have the matter out.