For thou soil-like eyes whome you detest,
I would end worlds to meet at last.
On thy body whome mine least,
Sits a feeling thee doubt see.

Smiling roses from pale skin
Fill my air with fragrance rain,
And the silk-touched hair, thee have slain,
Tells my thought of thy past dream:

It met you late, in night’s ripe time.
It wished you pain, for your love’s blind.

Ah, my queen, when I see thee
I feel my heart escaping me;
Yet, the sadness succumbe’s I,
For thou soul, won’t merge with mine.