Restless nights have sapped my blood,
but fatigue cannot subdue this bliss;
indeed my nature is a thrilling corpse,
though surely she greets with the sweetest kiss.
My case for love is the people — I thought,
only now I see that you need them not;
as I amble along in your warm embrace,
serenaded by your charm and grace.
Bittersweet at the rumbling station,
as my feet onto your pavement step;
no joy surmounts your lovely presence,
no dole is bluer than my assured absence.
Silly posters have my return peeved,
faces wearing ridiculous kohl;
though all memories may from me leave,
still you shall be my familiar scroll.
The vendor who has for years there stood,
remindful of a sepia childhood;
the grandeur of the scholarly walls,
upon my past and future she calls.
Fountains spring at the clear blue sky,
the bakeries leaven the gentle air;
the old town’s early affairs I pry,
with breakfast at the market square.
Purple tulips enliven the garden,
who sit by her theatre as a lover would;
though seasons shall as her carousel turn,
her beauty both snow and flowers allude.
Farewell, for now, my adorable dear,
the drawing room of ghosts I hear,
at the window the artful Alps had stood,
behind clouds and rain your beauties elude.
To thyself be true my friend