Vain are my attempts
In winning her heart;
Making me like a desert,
We as hot and cold there apart.

She, fresh as a flower
Blossomed in the morn,
Liked me to lie
In the life of thorn.

Bidding farewell to my feelings,
Played she like a child;
And letting my thoughts run
As a stampede wild.

Wake, O Love, her mind,
With all your sound, but kind.