The lover's complaint

I asked the ripening bud,

"Why open now?

The cold winds are still blowing

and will kill you."

"Poor fool," she said,

"Do you feel these warm rays?

The butterflies are already

caressing me with their wings."

I'm dying of melancholy.

My heart is cold.

I asked the lark,

"Why these happy songs?

Why these lively, fluid pirouettes

in the sky?"

"Poor fool," she replied,

"It's time to sing!

Don't you see

the new light rising?"

I'm dying of melancholy.

I am full of sorrow.

I'm only half-alive,

and though I am young,

the old pity me.

A glance from my darling

is the only thing that would have saved me.

Without her, everything is icy

and dark.

She is angry with me.

My heart is full of death.