It's a rickety translation; somewhere along the way, the rythm shifted from wind blowing in the sand to stumbling on rocky ground. Still, translating poetry in your head when you can't sleep is a better way to ward off stressful thoughts than counting sheep.
The hunting horn
Tragic and grand was our story
Like the mask of a tyrant king
By no spell or chance happening
By no pathetic mystery
Was our love thrown from its glory
And as Thomas de Quincy drank
Opium, poison sweet and chaste
He thought of Anne and his heart sank
–Walk on, walk on, our time is waste
But if I walk I will not haste
Memories are hunting horns ablaze
Dying in the wind as soon as they rang.
(mangled from Guilaume Apollinaire's Cor de chasse, one of the most gorgeous poems around in the French language)