Sol 6.1

  1. You have robbed me, in love, of my sleep and fortitude,

    and with my tears you deepened my parched heart's thirst.

  2. And from your eyelids you clothed me in wasting sickness—

    so what a marvel: one clothed, yet stripped bare!

  3. O our beloveds, no—by the passion to which

    I come to drink, and have no way out after my arrival:

  4. If indeed you made my mere outline grow—one that

    because of sickness, would not have taken bodily form but for union—

  5. then those outlines grew through none but you,

    and but for you, annihilation would have lain in wait.

  6. Let my tears water the haunts of your land,

    for in their pouring rain lies every haunt's contentment.

  7. And do not tire of an emaciated man who resembles wasting sickness

    in sickness, sighs, and constant coming and going.

  8. For the east wind's breaths should not weary

    the dune's boughs, for all their suppleness and swaying.

  9. And do not tire of an emaciated man who resembles wasting sickness

    in sickness, sighs, and constant coming and going.

  10. For the breaths of youth should not weary

    the dune's boughs, for all their suppleness and swaying.

  11. And do not reproach every collared dove for lamenting,

    as it sings upon the slender curves of boughs,

  12. for you have collared every lover

    with tears; so they went, some weeping, some chanting.

  13. So, cupbearer of eyelids, pass me your wine,

    and, O my intoxication from it, run riot against sobriety!

Sol 6.1