Of the Friend’s ingenuous wit
I can relate no more:
By my pillow He did sit,
And spake upon the cure!

Though the tongue is bold enough,
The argument right fair,
What can I declare of Love,
Save that none can declare?

Happy he, who dared to reach
Deep into Being’s brain
And drew forth like jewels speech,
And fluent spoke again.

Desolate with joy am I
That, recognizing me,
In reproach He whispered, sly,
"Poor, homeless vagrant, see!"

Grieve not, that this world of ours
Its secret still conceals;
What is speechless to the flowers,
The birds’ lament reveals.

Passion’s message, that anew
I tell unfeignedly,
To the tulip spake the dew,
But spake in secrecy.

If my speech is all distraught,
What wonder were in this?
Of His tresses who speaks aught,
His tale distressful is.