The flesh is sad, alas! And I read all the books.
Flee! There flee! I feel that birds are drunk
To be among the unknown foam and the heavens!
Nothing, and no old gardens reflected by eyes
Will remember that this heart in the sea is soaking
O nights! Nor clarity deserted my lamp
On the empty white paper that defends
And not the young lady breast-feeding her child.
I shall leave! Steamer rocking your masts,
Weigh the anchor for an exotic nature!
Boredom, saddened by the cruel hopes,
Still believes in the supreme goodbye of handkerchiefs,
And, perhaps, the masts, inviting the storms
Are of those whom a wind tilts on the
Lost wrecks, without masts, without masts, nor fertile islands...
But, O my heart, hear the song of the sailors!

first version of the poem (from 1865 manuscript)

The flesh is sad, alas! I read all the books.
I want to go over there where the birds are drunk
To wander between the sea and unknown heaven!
Nothing, and not the old garden reflected in my eyes,
Will remember that this heart in the sea is soaking,
O nights, nor sterile whiteness under the lamp
From a paper defends me from a sick brain,
And not the young lady breast-feeding her child.

I shall leave! Steamer rocking your masts,

Weigh the anchor for an exotic nature! 

Because boredom, defeated by the empty hopes,
Still believes in the supreme goodbye of handkerchiefs,
And would you be those, steamer, in the storms,
That charming Fate reserves for shipwrecks
Lost without masts or board, free islands ...
But, O my heart, hear the song of the sailors!

03/16/08