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!