Raise no monument. For it is the roses
Which salute Him year by year with their petals.
This, you see, is Orpheus. His transformations
Run through this and through that. No need

To trouble ourselves with other names. All signs and tokens
Are Orpheus, if they sing. He winds through everything.
And is it not much if from time to time He broods over
The hanging rose hips for some days yet?

Oh, but He must fade, and we must understand that!
And what if He himself fears this need to waste away?
When His speech transcends the here and now.

Already He is there where we cannot follow Him.
The frets of the lyre cannot compel His hands.
He obeys when he transgresses.