A poem from the 'Songs of Isolde' collection by the Dutch poet P.C. Boutens

MY love is nought to me but golden,

I to him silver sheen!:

Whene’er he sings ‘Isolde’

His voice is shroudlike gleam.

No song I know so lunar-bright

As his projected shaft of light!

Those who by day may share his image

Can but extol

My bird’s gold-gleaming plumage,

To none though does his heart unfold.

In colour-faded twilight-hall

Sings but to me my nightingale...

How can that treasure-hoard of

Songs be kept till the evening-hour –

As I poor yearning loyally store, a

Wealth of sadness held as dower?

Must then release come from my kiss

For that bright spring of tearful bliss?

So does the native-golden

Sun give light to all the days,

Yet its closed eyes keep hidden

Its fondest gentle gaze,

And unseen murmurs all night long

Out to the moon that silver song.