XV

Worse than winter is spring

If I come not to sight of my king:

But then what a spring will it be

When my king takes homage of me!

I send his grace from afar

Homage, as though to a star;

As a shepherd whose flock takes flight

May worship a star by night.

As a flock that a wolf is upon

My songs take flight and are gone:

No heart is in any to sing

Aught but the praise of my king.

Fain would I once and again

Sing deeds and passions of men:

But ever a child's head gleams

Between my work and my dreams.

Between my hand and my eyes

The lines of a small face rise,

And the lines I trace and retrace

Are none but those of the face.