What Wealth of Words might I employ,
To ardently my Love let sing?
And by my troth, Thou art my joy,
How shall I – lovelorn – give it wing?
Fitful and ill at ease, my sleep,
Insomnolent my Vigil kept,
Provoked to sombre tears, I weep,
Across the barren moor unswept.
My feet press firmly in the peat,
The mist disorients the mind.
I see Thy face, a fell deceit,
Bewitched by gloom in fog enshrined.
Obscured and smothered by the brume,
I cannot find Thee, dearest one,
My smitten heart – with love abloom,
Cries out to Thee , but newly won.
What melody shall rise above,
The roaring silence of the plain?
And how shalt Thou, my turtledove,
Those ardent harmonies attain?
And whereabout dost Thou recline,
A specter on this vap’rous Sea?
My distant love, for whom I pine,
When art Thou coming home to me?