"Shall she not know me and see me all through, Me, on whose heart as a worm she trod? You have given me, God requite it you, What man yet never was given of God."
O sweet one love, O my life's delight, Dear, though the days have divided us, Lost beyond hope, taken far out of sight, Not twice in the world shall the gods do thus.
Had it been so hard for my love? but I, Though the gods gave all that a god can give, I had chosen rather the gift to die, Cease, and be glad above all that live.
For the Loire would have driven us down to the sea, And the sea would have pitched us from shoal to shoal; And I should have held you, and you held me, As flesh holds flesh, and the soul the soul.
Could I change you, help you to love me, sweet, Could I give you the love that would sweeten death, We should yield, go down, locked hands and feet, Die, drown together, and breath catch breath;
But you would have felt my soul in a kiss, And known that once if I loved you well; And I would have given my soul for this To burn for ever in burning hell.
Let us go hence, my songs; she will not hear. Let us go hence together without fear; Keep silence now, for singing-time is over, And over all old things and all things dear. She loves not you nor me as all we love her. Yea, though we sang as angels in her ear, She would not hear.
Let us rise up and part; she will not know. Let us go seaward as the great winds go, Full of blown sand and foam; what help is here? There is no help, for all these things are so, And all the world is bitter as a tear. And how these things are, though ye strove to show, She would not know.
Let us go home and hence; she will not weep. We gave love many dreams and days to keep, Flowers without scent, and fruits that would not grow, Saying 'If thou wilt, thrust in thy sickle and reap.' All is reaped now; no grass is left to mow; And we that sowed, though all we fell on sleep, She would not weep.
Let us go hence and rest; she will not love. She shall not hear us if we sing hereof, Nor see love's ways, how sore they are and steep. Come hence, let be, lie still; it is enough. Love is a barren sea, bitter and deep; And though she saw all heaven in flower above, She would not love.