LOVE’S thralls are we, and hence abide

Regardless of the world we’ve left,

Absorbed in our distress, bereft

Of consciousness of all beside.

Our banquet-hall’s a house of woe,

We drain the heart’s red blood for wine,

And, drunk therewith, we cease to pine

For aught that fortune can bestow.

If in our outward mien we seem

Anywise troubled or distrest,

’Tis but a semblance. In our breast

Hidden there reigns a calm supreme.

Here is no sound to vex our mood

Except the clanking of our chain.

No friends, thank God, with counsels vain

Break in upon our solitude.