Normale Version: TO —
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TO —

Thou whom of all the beings I have seen
I could adore most truly, — if our fate
Had so permitted it; but now I ween
To love were far more cruel than to hate:

O, had we met at some more happy date
I might have won thee for my angel bride;
And thou in me hadst found a truer mate
Than Constancy had ever known beside:

Our bodies as our kindred souls allied;
I know no state of happiness more blest;
For thee, deserting all, I could have died,
Or have died, all-deserted, on thy breast!

But, fare thee well! — I know that I am one
Condemned alike to live and die alone!

I thought that I could ever happy be,
Married to meditation, and my lyre,
Charming the moments on with melody
That fills the ear with musical desire;

But now far other thoughts my breast inspire;
I find no happiness in poesy;
Within my soul burns a diviner fire,
For now my heart is full of love and Thee!

Yet 'tis a melancholy thing to love,
When Fate or Expectation shuts the door,
When all the mercy I can hope, above
Mere friendship, is thy pity, — and no more,

For who could love a being such as me,
Thy most unhappy son, Fatality?