Oh, seldom is the light of day so fair!
The airs bathe cool and gusty blows wash clear:
A soaring splendour never can compare.
Yet doleful am I, hid in pits of drear.
While I tremble, of this torment fearful,
There’s nothing pleasing lips can freely tell.
And thus I freeze with sapphires ever-tearful,
And bidding you in woe a sore farewell.
The deeper is a wound not to be healed,
Though sadness weary wishes can invert.
If wish I, then—if not my fate were sealed—,
To mend, I would swift darkenness desert.
Ha, wish I not! I like to writhe in pain,
For else why should I happiness disdain?

The End

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