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!
