BelovÈd one, for thy sweet sake,

By whirlwinds tossed and swayed I roam;

The stranger’s accents round me wake

These burning thoughts that wander home.

No man such longings wild can bear

As in my heart forever rise.

Oh that the wind might waft me there

Where my belovÈd’s vineyard lies!

Oh that I were the zephyr fleet,

That bends her vines and roses sweet.

For I am piteous and forlorn,

As is the bird that haunts the night;

Who inconsolably doth mourn

Whene’er his rose is from his sight.

O’er earth and ocean, everywhere

I gaze in vain, with weary eyes.

Oh that the wind might waft me there

Where my belovÈd’s vineyard lies!

Oh that I were the zephyr fleet

That bends her vines and roses sweet.

I would I were yon cloud so light,—

Yon cloudlet driven before the wind.

Or yonder bird with swift-winged flight:

My heart’s true way I soon would find!

Oh, I would be the wind so fleet

That bends her vines and roses sweet.