O fawn, enough—be thou no more, I pray,By God, more cruel than all temptation's sway!!
Fair art his form—beyond all art there's none above;Upon his cheek the rose of Afā blooms in love;
Within him grace finds dwelling-place serene;The priceless pearl adorns him—they named him Sin, I ween;
No fault in him save one that I can trace—His sidelong glance—the richest glance of grace;
To love him made all passion sweet and fair;By loving him I nearly lost all care;
Whene'er he shone, my longing he would wake;And when he vanished—mad the heart would break.
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