LET not thy curl, whose loveliness

Maddens the world, bring new distress

Upon thy lovers, floating free,

Tossed by the wind, that all may see

And fall beneath thy sorcery.

Let not the valley of thy love

A place of bitter torment prove

For dolorous souls, already worn

By all the penance they have borne,

Betrayed by love, and left forlorn.

No flower, no nightingale am I,

So from the garden mournfully

I go. O breezes, free to stray,

Back to her garden find your way,

And greeting to my Love convey.

Exiled and driven from thee I pass

Upon my journey; like the grass

And patient reeds I bend and shake,

As my despairing road I take,

Leaving the body for thy sake.

Before the soul who understands

Be silent: in the desert sands

He learnt his lore. Break not the rest

Of the afflicted and oppressed

With poisoned arrows in his breast.