Was it not I who forged and shackled my heart in winter?
Was it not I who turned my home into a prison sneezer?
Was it not I who said to love, \"Farewell! Goodbye—
Do not return here until the tender month of May\"?
Love knocks at the door like a nighttime guest late,
And the heart bends once more like a reed-cane weight.
It burns and throbs against its own will, it feels the dart;
A wondrous child has pierced it deep so well to the heart.
He sleeps, my guest, in the hour before the next dawn;
The star is pale, like a fading yellowish topaz bijou stone.
It is not for me to wake him; he will wake in time, on his own,
Opening wide the wood doors to anew marvels wonderso.
I wait, I wait: the nebulous fear heaves within my breast.
Do not depart my dearest guest: stay, oh stay that you must!