Wood sheds its dress of crimson red,
Frost coats with silver withered fields,
Day shows its face as if against its will
And hides itself behind a hillside edge.
You, fire ablaze, in my secluded cell,
And you, oh wine, a friend of autumn cold,
Pour into soul sweet poison of all days
For brief oblivion of bitter thoughts.

I am so sad, no friend sits by my side,
With whom I’ll wash long parting down,
Whose hand I’ll shake with hearty laugh,
Whom I could wish so many years to last.
I drink alone; in vain imagination mine
Calls out for friends to come for brief respite;
No sound of their approach, familiar strides,
No longer is my soul in wait for dearest one.