A woman's heart 
that cannot love,
that cannot surrender 
Its whole soul and being
to the anguish of love,
cannot be called 
a woman's heart.
 
And if one day love 
loses the intense glow
that kindles life 
and soothes the pain
of its own suffering --
like a flower without fragrance 
it well deserves to die.
 
Though I dreamt 
our love was strong and happy,
and though you wove its strands, 
our love was born infected 
by the diseased germ
of my restless nature 
and your sad soul.
 
Its dawn was pale 
and failed to reach its noon;
hardly had one hour
of illusion gone by,
than our love was dying.
 
We refused to believe 
That it was a fever
which vanished forever 
and severed our bonds.
And it was a torment 
To clasp its dissolving shadow 
in our arms!
 
Now you are tempted by the memory 
of those withered hopes,
I linger in your mind 
like a faded flower.
Do not call at my door!
When love has died, 
no one can revive it.
 
Poor Love! It is now too late.
Leave it in peace!
Adored in vain, 
in vain desired,
it was the inevitable fruit 
of my restless nature
and your sad soul!
 
At times I clasp my hands, 
at times I close my eyes,
when I am overwhelmed
by the throb of human desire.
Before its on-driving force,
the soul -- sensitive flower! -- 
languidly submits 
in unconscious defense.
 
I close my eyes and wait, 
I clasp my hands and pray;
I suffer, cry, laugh, cry, 
not knowing if I live or die!
A tumultuous fusion: my life, 
With its joy and torment,
overflowing like a candle, 
dissolving in its own flame.
 
A woman's heart 
that cannot love,
that cannot surrender 
Its whole soul and being
to the anguish of love,
cannot be called 
a woman's heart.