You seek to hurt me, foolish child, and why?
How cunningly you try
The keen edge of your words against me, yea,
The death you would not dare inflict on me,
Yet would you welcome if it tore the day
In which I pleasure from my sight.
You would be happy if that sombre night
Ravished me into darkness where there are
No flowers and no colours and no light,
Nor any joy, nor you, O morning star.

What have I done to hurt you? You have given
What I have given, and both of us have taken
Bravely and beautifully without regret.
When have I sinned against you? or forsaken
Our secret vow? Think you that I forget
One syllable of all your loveliness?
What is this crime that shall not be forgiven?

Spring passes, the pale buds upon the pond
Shrink under water from my lonely oars,
The fern is squandering its final frond,
And gypsy smoke drifts grey from distant shores.

O soon enough the end of love and song,
And soon enough the ultimate farewell;
Blazon our lives with one last miracle,--
We have not long.

Genoa