  Well for thee, unsighted bard, Not half so hard thy plight as mine; Hadst thou seen her for whom I pine, Sickness like mine were thy reward. O would to God I had been blind Or e'er her twined locks caught my eye, Her backward glance as she passed by— Then had my fate been less unkind. Till my grief outgrew all griefs, I had pitied sightless men; Now hold I them happy and envy them— In the snare of her smile ensnared I lie. Oh! woe that ever her face was seen! And woe that I see her not every day! Woe to him who is knotted to her alway, Woe to him who is loosed from the knot, I ween. Woe to him when she comes, woe to him when she goes, To the lover who wins her, his love is but pain; To the lover she flies who would call her again, To him and to me, it is woe of all woes! |
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