Wind! Oh, if thou hadst but reason,
Word for word in turns thou'dst carry,
E'en though some perchance might perish
'Tween two lovers so far distant.
All choice morsels I'd dispense with,
Table-flesh of priests neglect, too,
Sooner than renounce my lover,
Whom, in summer having vanquished,
I in winter tamed still longer.
DEPRESSION
Roses, ah, how fair ye be!
Ye are fading, dying!
Ye should with my lady be,
On her bosom lying;
All your bloom is lost on me,
Here despairing, sighing.
Oh, the golden dreams I nursed,
Ere I knew thy scorning,
When I poured my passion first,
And at break of morning,
Plucked the rosebuds ere they burst
For thy breast's adorning!
Every fruit and floweret rare,
To thy feet I bore it.
Fondly knelt, to see thee there
Bending fondly o'er it.
Gazing on thy face so fair,
To revere, adore it.
