My star for me has quenched its light,
But in my heart its ray is sweet.
At Dobreesen flowers a fair rose-tree;
It bears a lovely perfumed rose,
But what is that lovely rose worth to me,
If far beyond my reach it blows.
The young postilion is sounding his horn,
He brings a letter from my dear.
But her letter of gold leaves me forlorn,
Since she comes not to meet me here.