Not heat flames up and consumes,
Not sea-waves hurry in and out,
Not the air delicious and dry, the air of ripe summer, 
  bears lightly along white down-balls of myriads of seeds,
Wafted, sailing gracefully, to drop where they may;
Not these, O none of these more than the flames of me, 
  consuming, burning for his love whom I love,
O none more than I hurring in and out;
Does the tide hurry, seeking something, and never give up? O I the same,
O nor down-balls nor perfumes, nor the high rain-emitting clouds,
  are borne through the open air,
Any more than my soul is borne through the open air,
Wafted in all directions O love, for friendship, for you.