O beauteous rose! O shrub without a thorn!
When wilt thou realize my love in sooth?
I touch the windowsill with heart forlorn,
Hoping the guerdon of thy bounteous youth.
After the grief and teen of bitter days,
Troubled by woes that cicatrize and burn,
Ever at eventide I seek thy praise,
Yearning thy maiden bliss—I yearn, I yearn!
Over the rotten fruit of buried years
Unbar the bolt—have pity on my tears!