| Come in out of the rain thou sayest — but thou ne’er step’st aside;
|
| And I am trapp’d —
|
| A distance there is…
|
| None, save me and the bodkin — pitter-patter on the roof:
|
| Behold! |
| — 'tis not the rain; |
| thence me it has to be —
|
| I will not drink thy vintage wine, my dear;
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| Thou hast heed’d that I am of innocence, yet thou let’st thy lass into peril —
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| Thou let’st me be parched;
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| My heart is of frailthy, my pale skin is hued damask.
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| When thou thy tears hast hidden, «Come back!», thou sayest —
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| There I soon am to be — but how am I to run when my bones, my heart
|
| Thou hast me bereaft —
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| But run thou sayest; |
| I run —
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| And there and then I behold that a time will come when I again dead will be.
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| Thou tell’st me to leave without delay —
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| I leave with my bodkin and my tears in my hands;
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| Lo! |
| — the shadows, the sky descending;
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| So by a dint of smite I gait ere I run and melt together with dusk.
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| In my mind in which is this event,
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| But it seems as if naught is to change anyway?!
|
| After all these years thou left’st me down in the emotional depths —
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| The sombre soaked velvet-drape is hung upon me,
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| Turning my feelings away from our so ignorant world:
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| All the beautiful moments shared, deliberately push’d aside —
|
| …a distance there is… |