14: Lament
Sweet it is to follow thoughts
That guide us to our beloved,
Where from flower-covered heights
Sunbeams spread.
The lilies say: Our tint
It is that adorns her cheek.
Our lustre appears the loveliest:
Thus speak the blue violets.
And with a soft blush
The roses smile from wantonness.
Cool evening breezes gently waft
Through the loving glow.
All you sweet little flowers,
Be it colour, be it form,
Depict with loving power
My beloved's bright countenance.
Do not quarrel, O delicate little flowers.
Roses, scented narcissi,
Every flower shines more beautiful
When it kisses her bosom
Or hangs in her curls.
Blue violets, variegated carnations,
When she plucks them for an ornament,
Are happy to wither as her finery,
Blessed with a sweet death.
These flowers are my teachers,
And I do as they do.
I follow them, as they taught me.
Ah! I would give anything
To be able to rest on her bosom.
Not for years do they serve her.
No: for just a short, brief spell.
Then they die in her arms.
They die with no wish left unfulfilled.
Ah! How many flowers lament
Alone here in this quiet valley.
They wither before the sunrise;
They die at the first sign of dawn.
Ah, it is so bitter and heartfelt,
The sharp pain that gnaws at me too.
It is the fear that I will never again
Behold her and all my happiness.