In the mead a tulip blows
In whose breast no yearning glows,
A narcissus, languid too,
Yet it lacked the eye to view.

Billowing breath was in the clay,
But no heart did it display;
Caravan upon the road–
Such was life, yet where the load?

Time itself was void and free
Of the topers’ song of glee,
Wine was in the glass aflame
Yet was none to quaff the same.

Sinai’s lightning made complaint
That desire was dumb and faint;
In the peaceful valley there
Silent was the voice of prayer.

Love upon our woe expressed
Builds anew the great unrest,
Else no murmur ever stirs
From these silent banqueters.