Be still, O hunger of heart, and let pity speak:
Her soul is a wandering bird, and its wings are weak,
Pier heart is a little flame, it pants at a sigh:
blind and pitiless heart, it is love going by.
If I had only pity, and a little rest,
Peace as a rose would blossom again in my breast;
If I had only patience, and let love free,
As a bird to its nest, my love would come to me.
But I have neither patience nor pity at all,
And I hold her heart in my hand, and I let it fall;
I hold the joy of my life in my heart, and I seem
As one who walks and lament in a mournful dream.
