The Sun

Cease thy reproaches, my friend, nor hastily blame me if, weary,
Stretch'd on a pillow of down, I have tarried too long in my slumbers;
Say not, The sun is awake, and is mounting aloft to meridian;
Long, long before thee he rose ; but night is the time for reposing.
Friend! when the sun hastens down to the ocean at even, what drinks he?
When he seeks rest and sweet sleep, what drinks he? He drinks the salt billows;
Had he but drunk of the grape which grew on Szészgárd's lovely vineyard,
He had not roused him so soon, but had slept to this moment, my friend!