Yes, thou art wretched, and I blame thee not;
My Love, we both must ever wretched be!
Until death's peace concludes our fatal lot,
My Love, we both must ever wretched be!
I see the scorn which round thy pale lip weaves,
And see thine eyes outlighten haughtily,
And see the pride with which thy bosom heaves;
And wretched art thou still, wretched as I.
In secret round thy mouth a pain-thrill steals,
Through tears held back thine eyes can scarcely see,
The haughty breast a bleeding heart conceals;
My Love, we both must ever wretched be.
The violets blue of the eyes divine,
And the rose of the cheeks as red as wine,
And the lilies white of the hands so fine,
They flourish and flourish from year to year,
And only the heart is withered and sere.
The earth is so fair and the heaven so blue,
And the breeze is breathing so warmly too,
And the flowers of the meadow are gleaming through
