Song

With the heavenly gift in its hand,

Love softly wafts down,

and its rosy plumage

covers the wounded heart;

but from the quiet grave

Love rises towards heaven.

Joy, longing, and rapture

it presents with gentle hands,

it must also mete out suffering,

separation, agony, and pain;

ah! the rose that we pick

presses a thorn into our heart.

On the throne of the gods

Time unfeelingly breaks the lovely rose,

and it sinks, the bloomless one,

wilted and scattered --

but the sharp point of the thorn

pains us for all eternity.

Float away, you heavenly gift,

only for my sweet songs

do I again collect your blossoms,

not for this heart of mine;

only in the dark, desolate grave

shall love's pain heal.