Under sun the eyes are burning,
Day’s not equal day.
I tell you for that occasion
If I would betray:
Whose lips I had not been kissing
In the hour of love,
To whom I upon black midnight
Did not dreadfully vow—
To live, like a flower blooms, like
Mother tells a child,
Never with an eye to go
To any side …
See that cross made of cypress?
It’s familiar to you.
All will wake—you only whistle
Underneath my window.