My voice that is for you the languid one, and gentle,

Disturbs the velvet of the dark night’s mantle,

By my bedside, a candle, my sad guard,

Burns, and my poems ripple and merge in flood—

And run the streams of love, run, full of you alone,

And in the dark, your eyes shine like the precious stones,

And smile to me, and hear I the voice:

My friend, my sweetest friend … I love … I’m yours … I’m yours!