Don’t love me, O’ sweet, when we meet,
For there is less
Glee in achieving than in yearning.
From here it’s alluring,
The scent of your tress;
I get my joys in burning,
In pining, in longing
And in sorrow,
And waiting for each tomorrow.
I don’t want to strangle my dreams to death,
You, alone, sit in my dream castle
On an island in a grieving river;
And far below
In a dark dungeon I am thrown.
I reach out my hands without catching ye,
Ye outside smile at me.
And, lo! I wish not my hands were free.
I shall wait…wait till the pains are so much,
That they burn themselves in their own scars,
The waters of grieving river’d calm down,
The cell would break its own bars.
Then you and I’ll live away from town,
In a small hut by a joyous brook.
We’d work, we’d eat, we’d play the deep
Game of love,
And thus at last we’d sleep.
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