Love seeketh not Itself to please,
Nor for itself hath any care;
But for another gives its ease,
And builds a Heaven in Hells despair.
So sang a little Clod of Clay,
Trodden with the cattles feet;
But a Pebble of the brook,
Warbled out these metres meet.
Love seeketh only Self to please,
To bind another to Its delight:
Joys in anothers loss of ease,
And builds a Hell in Heavens despite.
Ah! o vakitler bırakırdım kendimi,
Ve sıkılır dururdum saatlerce;
Ne kitabımdan bir zevk alırdım,
Ne de bilgi çardağı altında olmaktan,
Yorulurdum bu kasvet sağnağından.