Had fired me so, that neither food
Would stay my misery, nor sleep
My roving eyes in quiet keep.
But still consumed, without respite,
I tossed about my couch in vain
And longed for day—if speak I might,
Or be with you again.
But when my limbs with all the strain
Worn out, half dead lay on my bed,
Sweet friend to thee this verse I penned,