Night covers up the rigid land

     And ocean's quaking moor,

And shadows with a tolerant hand

     The ugly and the poor.

The wounded pride for which I weep

     You cannot staunch, nor I

Control the moments of your sleep,

     Nor hear the name you cry,

Whose life is lucky in your eyes,

     And precious is the bed

As to his utter fancy lies

     The dark caressive head.

For each love to its aim is true,

     And all kinds seek their own;

You love your life and I love you,

     So I must lie alone.

O hurry to the fêted spot

     Of your deliberate fall;

For now my dreams of you cannot

     Refer to you at all.