Alone, and lost in thought, the desert glade
Measuring I roam with lingering steps and slow;
And still a watchful glance around me throw,
Anxious to shun the print of human tread:
No other means I find, no surer aid
From the world's prying eye to hide my woe:
So well my wild disordered gestures show,
And love-lorn looks, the fire within me bred,
That well I think each mountain, wood and plain,
And river knows, what I from man conceal,
What dreary hues my life's fool chances dim.
Yet whatever wild or savage paths I've taken,
Wherever I wander, love attends me still,
Soft whispering to my soul, and I to him.
Translated by Anon. 1795
If you have any suggestions or questions regarding these poems please email me