WHICH flower I love, I cannot discover; This grief doth impart. In every calix I search like a lover, And seek a heart. The flowers smell sweet in the sun's setting splendour, The nightingale sings. I seek for a heart that like my heart is tender, And like it springs. The nightingale sings; his sweet song, void of gladness, Comes home to my breast; We're both so oppress'd and heavy with sadness, So sad and oppress'd. |