The tired heart sleeps well through the night
I sleep well
the owner of a lonely heart in flannel
what is it, there quietly moving in dream a suckling
freezing from cold a fly's whimper
bumm bumm bumm bumm bumm bumm.

I feel sorrow over the dust-white light of this room
I feel lonely about the powerless tremor of this life.

My love
you're sitting there, by the pillow on my bed
my love, you're sitting there.
Your slender neck
your hair you've grown long
listen, my gentle love
please stroke my miserable fate
I feel sorrow

I

Thy nights moan into my days,
Through my dreams courses the blood of thy feet.
O I will drink thy tears away,
I will bear thee up under the crown of my leaves.

The crown of my leaves is cool and full of peace,
Bathed high in waters deep.
Down upon us shall drip the depths of the sky,
From seas eternal through the holy crown of leaves.

Slumber deep in my arms!
My eyes are steel-hard angels watching
Over thy peace.

II

Thy eyes with gloom are gleaming,
And a spinning weeping

Through love to light! Oh wonderful the way
That leads from darkness to the perfect day!
From darkness and from sorrow of the night
To morning that comes singing o'er the sea.
Through love to light! Through light, O God, to thee,
Who art the love of love, the eternal light of light!

Thro bushes & briars when I took my way
Down by a chrystal riverside one morning in May
I hear[d] a pretty damsel her voice was so clear
Long time have I been waiting for the coming of my dear

I drew somthing near to a tree that was green
Where the leaves they so shaded me I scarce could be seen
& there I sat & nothing said till my poor heart did move
Long time Id this opinion of poor distressed love

Some says I lost my senses & crazily inclined
But first I go unto my love & tell to her my mind

Three sang of love together: one with lips
Crimson, with cheeks and bosom in a glow,
Flushed to the yellow hair and finger-tips;
And one there sang who soft and smooth as snow
Bloomed like a tinted hyacinth at a show;
And one was blue with famine after love,
Who like a harpstring snapped rang harsh and low
The burden of what those were singing of.
One shamed herself in love; one temperately
Grew gross in soulless love, a sluggish wife;

One famished died for love. Thus two of three
Took death for love and won him after strife;

He saw them tasked with heavy burthens all,
Bowed down and weary 'neath the heavy load;
With none their faltering footsteps home to call,
Or point them out the strait and narrow road;
His spirit bore their burthens, as his own,
He healed the sick, restored the sightless eyes;
He heard the mourner for a loved one moan,
And bade the dead from out the grave arise!
Truly on him the Spirit did descend,
For he, by works divine, its influence proved;
Of all our race Consoler, Guide, and Friend,
By heavenly Love, divine Compassion moved;

Though I'm thinking of you ceaselessly,
I can't somehow remember your face.
I come to myself, and realize I'm humming over and over again
a tune of some music that caught my ear.
Though I think I'd like to see you
it's not so much a passion as a curiosity:
I'd like to make certain of what's what with myself,
in front of you, once again.
What comes after doesn't come to my mind.
I can't imagine holding you either.
Only, the world other than you is quite wearying,
and like an actor in a movie filmed at high speed
I light my cigarette slowly.

Thou wert the morning star among the living
Ere thy fair light had fled;--
Now, having died, thou art as Hesperus, giving
New splendour to the dead.
Language has not the power to speak what love indites;
The Soul lies buried in the ink that writes.

Those men who love the crwth and harp,
Cynghanedd, song, the englyn's art,
They love the best things God has given
To please his angel-hosts in heaven.

Those charming eyes within whose starry sphere
Love whilom sat, and smiled the hours away, —
Those braids of light, that shamed the beams of day, —
That hand benignant, and that heart sincere, —
Those virgin cheeks, which did so late appear
Like snow-banks scattered with the blooms of May,
Turned to a little cold and worthless clay,
Are gone, forever gone, and perished here, —

But not unbathed by Memory's warmest tear!
Death thou hast torn, in one unpitying hour,
That fragrant plant, to which, while scarce a flower,