Forgive that, boldly risking scorn
The Soul’s deep yearning to confess,
The singer’s lips must hotly burn
To waft the flames of his distress.
Can I against myself then turn
And lose myself, dumb, comfortless,
The very name of singer spurn,
Not love you, having seen your face?
So high the Soul’s illusions aspire,
O'er me you stand magnificent;
’tis but your tears that I desire,
And that my songs you only enjoyed
To lend them grace and ornament;
Then may they flee into the Void!