She was a maid almost, emerging here from this united joy of song and lyre and shone clear through her vernal veils like fire and made herself a bed inside my ear.
And slept in me. And all was in her sleep. The trees, which I always admired, such palpable distance, the meadow felt so much and every wonder, that affected me.
She slept the world. Oh singing god, how did you so complete her, that she did not care to wake up first? Look, she stood and dreamed.
Where is her death? Will you invent this theme before your song consumes itself? To where sinks she away from me? ... Almost a maid ...