I
The Wind and the Beam loved the Rose,
  And the Rose loved one;
 For who recks the wind where it blows?
  Or loves not the sun?

II
None knew whence the humble Wind stole,
  Poor sport of the skies —
None dreamt that the Wind had a soul,
  In its mournful sighs!

III
Oh, happy Beam! how canst thou prove
  That bright love of thine?
 In thy light is the proof of thy love.
  Thou hast but — to shine!

IV
How its love can the Wind reveal?
  Unwelcome its sigh;
 Mute — mute to its Rose let it steal —
 Its proof is — to die!