Xxviii

What matters it what in sweet songs The nightingale is telling, Since my own heart has left its place And now with Thee ’tis dwelling.

And if her call rang e’er so sweet And into mine ears chanted: What matters it, since in my heart And soul now Thou art planted!

And there Thou art, so charmful, Beyond imagination, That I’d give the sky’s stars, my soul, To Thee in admiration.