All that was eagle has turned into dove.
The path from the meadow that leads to the bars
Is more to me now than the path of the stars.
How shall I woo thee to win thee, mine own,
Thou who art fair and as far as the moon?
Had I the strength of the torrent's wild tone,
Had I the sweetness of warblers in June;
The strength and the sweetness might charm and persuade,
But neither have I my petition to aid.
How shall I woo thee to win thee, mine own?