My heart is sick with longing, tho' I feed
On hope; Time goes with such a heavy pace
That neither brings nor takes from thy embrace,
As if he slept — forgetting his old speed:
For, as in sunshine only we can read
The march of minutes on the dial's face,
So in the shadows of this lonely place
There is no love, and Time is dead indeed.
But when, dear lady, I am near thy heart,
Thy smile is time, and then so swift it flies,
It seems we only meet to tear apart
With aching hands and lingering of eyes.
Alas, alas! that we must learn hours' flight

The young moon hides her virgin heart
Within a ring of gold;
So doth this little cycle all
My bosom's love enfold,
And tell the tale that from my lips
Seems ever half untold;
Like the rich legend of the East,
That weaves and interweaves
Its linked sweetness, or the rose
That hath a hundred leaves.

This little fairy talisman
Shall love's serene Elysium span;
No hope shall pass its mystic round,
And all within be holy ground:
And here, as in the elfin ring
Where fairies dance by night,
The green oases of the heart

I Loue the life that Loue doth most mislike;
That is the life which is most like to Death:
On lifes Hart-strings when Death at last, shall strike
Soules Organs then do sound with sweetest breath!
The Discords of this Life annoy their Eares
Where but Faithes Concords onely sweetly sound:
From Discords Dangers rise: from Dangers, Feares
Which Three, these Three, the Soule, Minde, Body wound!
I would therefore, liue dead to such a life
With the Graue of most obscure estate:
So, dead, to liue as farre from State , as Strife ,

The pledge
we exchanged
in a dream-world
long ago
has never changed;
what turned out
to be fickle
is the world

Now, at last,
I know:
that when
I waited to see him
night after night,
beneath it all
already
in his heart
he had changed.

We pledged our love,
but all
to no avail —
since I do not know
where
in those far, cloudy hills
the pheasant has flown.

The years
passed by
and I had though that
at last
I could rest secure,
Why now,
then,
after all this time,
does he seem to drift away?

If even in dreams
we cannot meet,
then how am I
to send a message?
Here on this Gloomy
Mountain road
I meet no one at all.

When we parted,
he promised
nothing — not even
" Wait 'til this evening. "
Yet as soon
as I fall asleep
I see him

Though it drifts
my way,
can I really be so sure?
A cloud blown
by winds
as it travels
through the sky
is in the end a fickle thing.