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.