Текст оригинала на английском языке
Lo, even as I passed beside the booth Of roses, and beheld them brightly twine To damask heights, taking them as a sign Of my own self still unconcerned with truth; Even as I held up in hands uncouth And drained with joy the golden-bodied wine, Deeming it half-unworthy, half divine, From out the sweet-rimmed goblet of my youth. Even in that pure hour I heard the tone Of grievous music stir in memory, Telling me of the time already flown From my first youth. It sounded like the rise Of distant echo from dead melody, Soft as a song heard far in Paradise.
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