Warm desire is ever riving
Closest fetters with its striving.
"Every impulse harshly spurning
Hard and cold to be as stone,
Never glances bright returning,
Close to be and all alone,
Heed to no entreaty giving,--
Call you that the flower of living?
"Ah, how great a maid's annoyance,
Sick and chafed her bosom is,--