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I

I bring thee a chain, strung with pearls�

They are my tears;

A beauteous garment woven with the threads

Of my sweetest dreams;

A chaplet to adorn thy wond'rous hair,

Shining with the gems of my thought;

Last –a lute–which is my heart,

For thee to play as thou wilt.

II

Thou answered not the call of my lonely heart, O Love!

The blossoms of my sweetest thoughts wilted at thy feet;

My heart-strings I tuned–they ache, –so rusty, they break�

Yet thou played not thy music, and pale dawn finds me weary

Waiting for thee all night–still thou cometh not!

III

My heart is bleak and lonesome as a winter day,

Touch it with thy magic wand, O Love!

Make it bloom with a thousand flowers�

Make it fragrant with thy memories;

My heart-strings are rusty�

Tune them to thy divine music:

If they break, no matter�

I'll remember thou didst play.