If I were a humming bee, a honey bee of winter
I would not on rosy petals wander nor on any bower;
I would kiss not the lily for its honey nor the December
But perch in thine scented hair,
If only for a lightning while.

If I were a feathered angel as the glorious mina
I would chatter not on idle casuarinas
At break of day nor probe the fruits of the papal
But land on thine shoulders soft
Thine curbful shoulders oft.

And gazing at thine melting face I shall thus remain
Till tears of love run as a river to thy heart’s domain
And on every morn thou shall hear me pine
Till thy countenance descend
To hear me and to behold.

And alas! If I were a mortal and god has made me one,
I would thus eternally write, but for others none
And writing hear thy melodious tone
When at last my heart shall bleed
And bleeding pass to the unknown creed.