Song

I.

Nay but you, who do not love her,  Is she not pure gold, my mistress?

Holds earth aught—-speak truth—-above her?  Aught like this tress, see, and this tress,

And this last fairest tress of all,  So fair, see, ere I let it fall?

II.

Because, you spend your lives in praising;  To praise, you search the wide world over:

Then why not witness, calmly gazing,  If earth holds aught—-speak truth—-above her?

Above this tress, and this,

I touch  But cannot praise,

I love so much!