Not the heat flames up and consumes, 
Not the sea-waves hurry in and out, 
Not the air, delicious and dry, the air of 
          the ripe summer, bears lightly along 
          white down-balls of myriads of seeds, 
          wafted, sailing gracefully, to drop 
          where they may, 
Not these—O none of these, more than the 
          flames of me, consuming, burning for 
          his love whom I love—O none, more 
          than I,  hurrying in and out; 
Does the tide hurry, seeking something, and 
          never give up?—O I, the same, to
          seek my life-long lover; 
O nor down-balls, nor perfumes, nor the high
          rain-emitting clouds, are borne through
          the open air, more than my copious 
          soul is borne through the open air, 
          wafted in all directions, for friendship, 
          for love.—