Of Love, the Handmaiden of the Soul, and of the Soul whom Love hath Smitten.
Of old, belovèd damsel,
My handmaid thou wouldst be;
But thy ways are strange and wondrous,
Thou hast chased and captured me.
Thou hast wounded me right sore,
Thou hast smitten me amain,
And I know that never more
Can my heart be whole again.
Can the hand that has wounded heal?