Your beauty is disastrous, dear,
as when a man sleeps, dreaming,
and visions come, inspiring fear
and setting cities screaming --
so lovely is your brilliant eye,
so full of angel-weather,
their hurricanes can make men die
or run in fear forever.
My joy has journeyed on this path;
my loved one set her foot here;
my dear one has walked this road.
In the glade, a print: she stepped here,
there she sat on rising stone.
This stone is better than the next stone,
this glade is brighter than the last glade,
that grove is sparkling, its honey sweeter,
all the forest fairer she has made
by walking on this road, my dear one.