Aubade
Cool and beautiful as the blossom of the wild carrot
With its crimson central eye,
Round and beautiful as the globe of the onion blossom
Were her pale breasts whereon I laid me down to die.
From the wound of my enemy that thrust me through in the dark wood
I arose; with sweat on my lip and the wild woodgrasses in my spur
I arose and stood.
But never did I arise from loving her.