I, store smerter! Dødens vilde kjærtegn!
Dens hete elskovshandlinger mod os,
paa det, at vi skal mykne i hans armet,
og knuges spake i vor levetrods!
Du menneske! Du flammer av hans aande,
hans sværmeriske aande paa kin kind,
og i hans armer stammer du i vaande,
i svimmel vaande: "Ja! Jeg skal bli din!
Jeg tror den haand, som stryker mine lemmer!
Jeg dør av dine kysse paa mit kjod!
Men knug mig ikke, elskede, det hæmmer
min egen elskov, kongelige død!"
Du menneske! Naar lydige og fromme
hans armer har dit legeme forladt,
og venter, aabne, paa dit glade komme -
plev nogen elsker dypere bedratt?
(O, powerful pain! The wild caress of death! / How burning hot he makes his love to us
That we may yield and soften in his arms / That life's defiance may be crushed in us!
O man! His breath has fanned you to a flame / His wild, fantastic breath upon your brow,
And in his arms you stammer in your shame / And giddy agony: "Yes! Take me now!"
I trust the hand that strokes my eager flesh, / I die when on my limbs I feel your breath!
But hold me not, my love, do not enmesh / My great and burning love, O royal death!
O man! When, all obedient and numb, / He left your body, and your word believed,
And waits with open arms for you to come / Was ever any lover so deceived?)
