Ah, were I but the footstool e’en
On which my loved one’s foot doth rest,
I ne’er to grumble should be seen,
However hard I might be press’d.
(The heart speaks.)
Ah, were I but the cushion soft
Wherein her pins she’s wont to stick,
And ’twere her will to prick me oft,
I should rejoice at every prick.
(The song speaks.)
Ah, were I but the paper dear
Wherewith she’s wont her hair to curl,
I’d gently whisper in her ear
The thoughts that in me live and whirl.
38.
Since my darling one has left me,
Power of laughing is bereft me;
Blockheads fain would raise a joke,
But no laughter can provoke.
Since I’ve lost my darling one,
Power of weeping, too, is gone;
Though my heart with sorrow deep
Wellnigh breaks, I cannot weep.