In thy hands I now deliver
Once again my restless heart;
It will never cease from labour
For the ease thou wouldst impart

Hapless heart! whose whole affliction
Is the counting of the breath,
Having not within its power
To be lord of life and death.

In thy thought as I was slumb’ring
Thou, desirous of display,
This thy pearl of lustrous beauty
From thy breast didst cast away.

Loud complaint they laid against thee,
Moon and stars (didst thou not hear?)
That thy spark thou hast enkindled
In my ashes dark and drear.

In my breast his arrow pricking—
There is glory, there is fame!
If I cast myself before him,
He’d not seize me for his game.