My rose

To the lovely jewelry of Spring,

to the rose, my delight,

that is already bowing and turning pale

from the hot beams of the sun,

I reach out a cup of water

from a deep well.

You rose of my heart!

From the silent beam of pain

you bow and turn pale;

At your feet, I would like,

as this flower water does,

to silently pour my soul out,

even if I then might not see

you rise.