He to whom that woman appeared in a lofty
Cathedral on the holy day of the Lord’s Passion,
So that he was compelled to follow her as if she were a star,
Lured through mountain and valley in a waking dream.

That was a life-path. Like a filled vessel
You carried your heart after her, who was always far away.
In the same measure your lips praised the same sweet kernel
In song, and yet never came to the feast.

In your retreat under the arch of the arbour
You sent forth doves from the bed of their nest.
Whither? The sender knew only the name.

And as the delicate white ones never returned,
You perceived, quietly scanning a sonnet,
That, vibrating with music, your soul had flown away.