My life’s burden’s for me light and shone,
I won’t you to be baffled or wound;
And not God, who had thought on a stone –
I do pity the stone he’s found.
I do pity the violet, faded -
Just in vain – just forgot among pages,
And the mist, by which glass has been laden,
Then – dissolved by hot tears for ages.
Not the mad woman’s pain, but the willow
Is awaking my heart’s even sadness,
‘Cause, while lulling this pain on leaves’ pillows,
It was tired and cut by winds merciless.