Thine is whate'er thou wishest from life's store,From thee my tenderness and love's rapport;
O learned one, at whose door my heart did stand,While I am she for whom the lovers yearn;
I long to burn yet am denied his nearness,And marvel at who burns and who must burn;
I see thee in my sleep traverse my worlds,My dreams and longings cry for thee unfurled;
My tears come hidden when I am with thee,And torment's sweetness is delight to me;
Thou sayest: have patience, fair one—for we areA spring within the hermits' sacred bar;
I bear above what I have borne before,Yet when thou smilest, all of it I bore;
If thou but knew what anguish I conceal,O my desire—thy pity would reveal.