Mornings and evenings in summer and in rains, I am fashioned to music.

Should I be wholly spent in some flight of song, I shall not grieve, the
tune is so dear to me.



4


My heart is a flute he has played on. If ever it fall into other hands let
him fling it away.

My lover's flute is dear to him, therefore if to-day alien breath have
entered it and sounded strange notes, let him break it to pieces and strew
the dust with them.



5


In love the aim is neither pain nor pleasure but love only.

While free love binds, division destroys it, for love is what unites.

Love is lit from love as fire from fire, but whence came the first flame?

In your being it leaps under the rod of pain.