Unheeded in the street,
O were I that which in her pathway lies,
Trodden beneath her feet!
My heart is as it were to fringes shred,
Such wounds it had to bear;
Would that it were the comb, to touch her head,
To tend her perfumed hair!
Long have I known that it was thy design
To burn my soul outright;
O may at least the happy fate be mine