Would
you put your wreath of fresh flowers on my neck, fair one?
But
you must know that the one wreath that I had woven is for the many, for
those who are seen in glimpses, or dwell in lands unexplored, or live in
poets' songs.
It
is too late to ask my heart in return for yours.
There
was a time when my life was like a bud, all its perfume was stored in
its core.
Now
it is squandered far and wide.
Who
knows the enchantment that can gather and shut it up again?
My
heart is not mine to give to one only, it is given to the many.