Hast thou not heard my heart as it laments?This is the melody that literature presents;
Within it sorrow's echo, voice consumed,Within it smile of lips though grief assumed;
Today we all are lost within its maze,We drift, and sometimes walk companioned days;
We know feelings live within our breast,While others' seem but clamour without rest;
The bird took pity—so we heard it sing,Its carol and its verse made spirits spring;
When leaves are sung our poems' sweet refrain,They wander in the grove and weep again;
The river bears what flows from our lament,On both its shores like waves with fire blent;
My heart's a lute—thy hand the player skilled,As though we were love's note that heaven willed;
Why has life grown, O friend, and drives us onTo struggle where the surging waves are drawn?
That life is like the dreams we daily ply,While years rush by and worldly life runs high;
O my companion, we shall both attainA glorious dawn the pure of heart await.
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