Dost Thou remember not my heart’s first rapture —
That piercing glance of Thine, those secrecies of love?
In this world of Thine neither home nor prison,
The body is starved of rest, the soul yearns for peace.
Emptied of the potent wine of Thy love for long,
The wasteland of the East awaits Thy blessing.
My comrades do not know the poignancy of my song;
They think it is a strain inspired by the beauty of spring.
It was my blood, O Lord, that blossomed into Thy world,
And Thou hast rewarded me with an everlasting pain.