Nor shall she in my summer bower,
When day has sped with all its care,
E’er greet me—at soft twilight’s hour,
In love to hold sweet converse there.
For passions rage and burn without control,
Where love, like poisoned daggers, stings the soul.
Fair Wisdom be the lovely maid
Whom I shall call to my embrace,
In whom my hopes of bliss are laid,
Since other love I now efface.