Night: V

Cross-out these senses, for their custom is not my own.
Flee! Take shelter among the barren flower gardens!,
Oh! Among the most blessed of things!
Tear the words which she had spoken!
Happiness from some other object is my despair,
The tasteless suffering of a mosquito! A ghost!

Many things are, I admit, subject to my envy,
Many of these are those blessed by her touch.
Pure and pleading; Drown me for I despise her!
And I love her! So, lonely night, be of acquaintance,
She has my heart and how much I want it back.

Oh! But she has the beauty far more than,
trees of the loveliest most forests, even more
As caught by moonlight, more than that of a thousand roses.
As happiness becomes eternity's fateful prisoner.

Very much have I been confined by my own strife.
Fann'd flames! I am ardent! The pale sun! Forget her!
To lie is to say that I did not seek her hand.
To lie is to say I could grasp the burning bitterness.
To lie is to say that her very existence is not my life's own.
So why not find cure and seek solace,
Among the stars of the forever still night?
And to lie is to say that she is not the solitary star of my night.