| Come is the festal season, With friends and roses late |
|
|
| So but of fortune backed I be, Hand on the Loved One's skirt I'll lay |
|
|
| When the thought of thy face overpasseth The rosegarden red of the eye |
|
|
| Ill we speak not nor inclining Practise to despite, not we |
|
|
| From hand my heart goeth: help! help! Ye pious! By all that's Divine! |
|
|
| If thou with kindness calls us, Pure grace it on thy part is |
|
|
| There's none who fallen victim Unto thy tress is not |
|
|
| Except the love of moonfaced maids, This heart of mine a way takes not |
|
|
| In her face's time no lover Inclination for the mead hath |
|
|
| There gleamed out a star and straightway The gathering's moon's become |
|
|