I

    O mother, I am sick of love,I cannot laugh nor lift my head, My bitter dreams have broken me,I would my love were dead.

    "Drink of the draught¹ I brew² for thee, Thou shalt have quiet in its stead."

    II

    Where is the silver in the rain,Where is the music in the sea, Where is the bird that sang all dayTo break my heart with melody³？

    "The night thou badst Love fly away, He hid them all from thee." The Wayfarer⁴

    Love entered in my heart one day,A sad, unwelcome guest； But when he begged that he might stay,I let him wait and rest.

    He broke my sleep with sorrowing,And shook my dreams with tears, And when my heart was fain to sing,He stilled its joy with fears.

    But now that he has gone his way,I miss the old sweet pain, And sometimes in the night I prayThat he may come again.