For gnats, which never singing, fronts
The full moon flooding down the vale,
The perfect soul, the nightingale!
You have wooed music all your life,
And I have sought for love. I think
My soul was marked, dear, by a wife
Who loved a man immersed in drink,
Who crushed her love which would not die.
If this be true, my soul's great thirst
Was blended with a fault accursed.