If I may melancholically upon
In shrouded wood with dancing shadows near,
Your lowly forehead wilting flower don,
Lamenting failing vanquishing your fear;
Malaise and passion mixing overwhelm
My burning ardor towards thy suffering;
It scalds my yearning urge to take the helm,
I bathe in equal soothing, frothing eau.
Forbid me from the donning—teach me not
To thee assault with such acidic hymns
Instead upon my forehead wilting flower don
As flowers bloom, the rest lose faith in Him.
O, pity not my lowly begging eyes,
O, focus rather on my wilting lies!