1. It is passion, though long ago I used to shun it,
Illness is its resort, and death is its source.

2. Oh what sorrow that is sweeter than the joy of hope!
Now I know something I used to deny.

3. Serious is this longing, though it began as jest,
The least of it, if you ponder, is plentiful.

4. And I have a lover, though the shrine has taken him far,
And I say he is distant, were it not for remembering him.