I love you in despair and in longing,

as though I had become part of you, and you of me.

I love you beyond what my ribs can hold,

beyond my hand's reach and the farthest bound of my fancy —

a love swaying loose-limbed and free

upon the untroubled plain of youth.

I will speak it, then — for every gust of wind

is talk of you in this world, and of me.

I will speak it, then — do the grapevines know

that you are my cups and my wine-jar?

Morning will spread us over the hills,

over the valley, over the singing trees.

I swear by the name of your mouth above my cup,

and sip it as though it were you, or I.

Upon the tender string I cast off my longing,

and my passion surged in the singer's sigh;

into the deep melody I walk toward you,

keeping close along the supple string.