THE HIDDEN MYSTERY
The tale of my sorrow a hidden mystery is,
The one who knows that from oneself thoroughly annihilated be.
The ringlet of your tress is out of my reach,
The one can reach that whose heart whatever you know be.
Give me a cup out of the jar of the tavern,
In this tavern performing as host who can be.
Who can avoid caring about the cup-bearer,
Except the rogue who lacks a name and address.
Though I am old, to the top of the beloved's tress I swear,
My passionate love for you is as my youth period.
I am distant from your place oh, coquettish vagabond,
That the only my share from your features, your letter scattering.
If the shepherds commute to your place,
Merry be that heart if my occupation shephered.