Were death of all the changeful moods of time,
And boundless being of my love's sweet prime.
Ah, thorny Roses, prate ye still of ruth
And would me my brief hour of bliss deny?
And yet all happy things to love are sooth,
But I, ah me, this destiny so high
Weighs on my spirit like a drowsy spell,
I cannot joy like those, nor stay, I fail
Before the greatness of my high behest,
Ah, high is holiness, but love is rest,