Night covers up the rigid land

Night covers up the rigid land

and ocean's quaking moor,

and shadows with a tolerant hand

the ugly and the poor.

The wounded pride for which I weep

you cannot staunch, nor I

control the moments of your sleep,

nor hear the name you cry,

Whose life is lucky in your eyes,

and precious is the bed

as to his utter fancy lies

the dark caressive head.

For each love to its aim is true,

and all kinds seek their own;

you love your life and I love you,

so I must lie alone.