Frankness

I TELL you true, it is not you I love,
It is not you for whom my spirit pines ...
If in my eyes my dream arising shines,
As does above a pallid pool the moon,
And seems in rapture exquisite to swoon,
O do not think that such a brief delight
Can be the bloom matured in this one night;
It is not you, it is not you I love,
I tell you true.

And yet this only night be kind to me.
I am so tired ... Caress me tenderly,
And let me dream another love than you.
Your care is sweet, my heart is sad and riven.
Fain would it give what unto it is given,
I tell you true.