of earthly night.
One thing only
there possessed me:
blank, unending,
all-oblivion.--
How faded all forebodings!
O wistful goadings!--
Thus I call
the thoughts that all
t'ward light of day have press'd me.
What only yet doth rest me,
the love-pains that possess'd me,
from blissful death's affright
now drive me toward the light,
which, deceitful, bright and golden,
round thee, Isolda, shines.
Accurséd day
with cruel glow!
Must thou ever
wake my woe?
Must thy light
be burning ever,
e'en by night
our hearts to sever?
Ah, my fairest,
sweetest, rarest!
When wilt thou--
when, ah, when--
let the torchlight dwindle,
that so my bliss may kindle?