It's Tiresome and Dreary

It's tiresome and dreary, there's nobody to shake hands with,
When you need to lift your soul up from its misery...
Desires! What use is it to desire in vain for years?
And years are passing by, all the best years!

To love? But whom? For a short while — it's not worth the effort,
To love forever is impossible.
Look into yourself: there's no trace of the past there;
All joys, all sufferings, everything there is miserable...

Passions, what of them? Earlier or later their sweet ailment
Should disappear, as soon as reason would speak;
And life itself, if you look around with a detached attention,
Is nothing but an idle, stupid joke.
1840