Eastward, the sun arises clad in gold,
Like spreading fires the rose’s buds unfold,
The violet droops, borne down by dewy tears.
My Laura, from her casement, bright and glad,
Shines forth upon me, on my knees I bow;
Winding her golden tresses, Why so sad
The moon, she asks, the violet, and thou?
’Tis eve, how changed! with added glory burns
The orient moon, and, now no more forlorn,
The violet drinks the sweet reviving breeze;
And Laura to her oriel returns
In lovelier garb, with dearer charms, and sees
Me sad as erst she saw me in the morn.
Adam Mickiewicz (1798–1855) Poland
Translated by Richard Garnett
Source: The Sonnets of Europe, ed. by Samuel Waddington. Walter Scott, 1888
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