It moveth me so,
Towards her I must go.
She is the soul who with pain is torn,
And love, that is one with the pain.
In the early dew of the morn,
In the hidden depths, which are far below,
The life of the soul is born.”
Then her vassals, which are the five senses, say to the soul, “Lady, adorn thyself.”
“We have heard the whisper clear;
The Prince is coming towards thee here,