It's evening, cold of autumn... O, fancy of the brain,
Why do you keep on coming, although I don't desire?
Within my soul you trouble a wound which gives me pain
And all alone and daunted I watch how burns the fire...
But when that savage maiden abruptly came my way,
She was so sad, so lovely, so dutiful and pleasant
That almost without knowing I felt the need to pray
With passion and devotion as if a saint was present.
And that my love was tender my witness is the sky,
Year after year I wanted to utter my confession,
But all the time I faltered, because I was too shy,
And thus she was unable to guess my ardent passion.
When to outlandish regions I left, she bowed her head,
Held out her hand in silence in a naive submission;
In her black eyes enchanting all people could have read
The sorrowful vainglory of love without fruition...
But I was not attentive, I couldn't read her mind,
Luck smiled to me, however I still was in the mire,
It gave me a good instant, but I was surely blind,
That's why today I'm lonely and watch how burns the fire...