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Now close the shutters and light the lamp;
 Recklessly toy with the merry guitar:
The wind of the west is cool and damp,
 And—what care you for the evening star?

And yet—and yet, O lady fair,
 If yonder palace you think to win,
With its windows blazing with gold, beware
 How you fancy there is a sun within!

Else, pierced by a life-long pain, I ween,
 Robbed of all love-light, cheated of joy,
Even you, lady, will pine to lean
 On the noble, burning heart of a boy.