In the swamp in secluded recesses，

    A shy and hidden bird is warbling a song.

    Solitary the thrush，

    The hermit withdrawn to himself， avoiding the settlements，

    Sings by himself a song.

    Song of the bleeding throat，

    Death's outlet song of life， （for well dear brother I know，

    If thou wast not granted to sing thou would'st surely die.）