O my cell, my sweet, beloved dwelling, forever and to all eternity, O my cell, farewell. On every side the tree girds you with resounding branches, the little wood ever laden with flowering foliage. The meadows will all bloom with health-bearing herbs, which the physician's hand seeks for the aid of health. Rivers gird you with flowering banks on every side, where the fisherman, rejoicing, spreads his nets. Your enclosures are fragrant with fruit-bearing branches throughout the gardens, white lilies mingled with red little roses. Every kind of bird sounds forth its morning songs, and praises God the Creator with its mouth. In you once resounded the kindly voice of the master, which delivered the books of wisdom with holy mouth. In you, at appointed times, the holy praise of the Thunderer sounded forth with peaceful voices and spirits.
You, my cell, I now bewail with tearful songs, and groaning I bewail your downfall from my heart. For you have suddenly fled the songs of the poets, and now an unknown hand holds you wholly. Now neither Flaccus nor the bard Homer will possess you, nor do the boys sing the Muses through your halls. Thus all the glory of the age is turned suddenly; all things are changed by varied orderings. Nothing remains eternal, nothing is truly unchangeable. The dark night obscures the sacred day, and cold winter suddenly strikes down the fair flowers, and a sadder breeze disturbs the calm sea. The holy youth that used to drive the stags across the fields now, weary, leans aged upon a staff. Wretched are we — why, O world, do we love you, fugitive that you are? You flee from us, ever everywhere rushing away.
As you flee, let you flee away; let us ever love Christ. Let the love of God forever hold our hearts. May He, the merciful, defend His servants from the dread enemy, snatching to heaven our hearts, His own. Let us with our whole heart alike praise and love Him: He, the merciful one, is our glory, our life, our salvation.