Oh you, my field, my beloved field, you cannot be mowed with a single stroke, you cannot be bound in a single sheaf! Oh you, my thoughts, my beloved thoughts, you cannot be shaken off with a single shrug, you cannot be expressed in a single tale! Did not the wind batter you, oh field of mine? Did it not bend your ears of wheat right to the ground, scattering the ripe grain hither and thither! Ah my thoughts, you have been scattered far and wide, and where a single little thought did fall, there a grass of cruel sadness sprouted, there burning bitterness did grow.