Take me, sweet child,
Take me and be mine.
So frail art thou, so mild,
Yet so fair and e’er so fine.

Do not cast me aside.
With me you must remain.
And from me do not hide;
Be still and calm my pain.

Yet the winds blow thee away,
And I, left alone with all my fears,
Can only wish you could but stay,
While I drown in warm, hard tears.

When I sink within these waters,
I think of what could come;
Of our sons and of our daughters,
Of the grandeur of our love’s sum.

Yet you love me not.
Why should it I deny?
Aye, and leave me so to rot,
To quake, to suffer, to die.

To die by thy hands,
E’en when the knife is in mine.
And be buried in the sands,
Without a trace, without a sign.

Do you not grieve?
If so, ‘tis not for me,
For you cannot conceive,
That my grief is all for thee.

“Child”, you were called?
What child, then, art thou?
Who my heart has thus mauled,
And saw not why nor how.

Forget me for my sins?
Why, if thou hast them too?
Why the foulest of thy wins,
If all I did was loving you?

No, you child, you witch!
What say I, you innocent girl?
My love I shall not switch,
Though in its pain I yet do twirl.

Knowing not, you wound me,
But the dagger, out I tear.
Knowing not, you kill me,
Yet such death I well can bear.
For not wounds, nor death,
Nor the e’er destructive whine,
Shall take away my final breath,
Whence I vow “you shall be mine!”