By night and day I linger in distress. Oh, if that graceful creature knew of me, She would show less of cruelty to me. Then Pity’s face would stand before her eyes, She would not sacrifice my life to pain. Oh, help me, thou who art my only hope, Take by the hand and guide the fallen one; Tell her how fares this miserable wight And make me pledged to show thee gratitude. Oh, give her knowledge of my pining pangs, And of the many sufferings I endure, Let fires of ardent longing warm thy tongue, So that her heart be filled with ruth for me.” XXVIII THE SOUL-NURTURING EAST WIND TAKES KNOWLEDGE OF THE NIGHTINGALE AND SEES TRACES OF PITY IN THE BEAUTEOUS ROSE Then said the East Wind that gives courage new: “Torment thyself no more, unhappy one, Thy sadness and thy mourning pierce my heart; And I am messenger from yonder queen; I will refuse thee nothing in my power, And I will work for thee with all my might. I will thy sufferings relate to her, And bear her message how it fares with thee. The lofty dame must take some note of thee; I will support thy cause as I have strength. Perchance my word will influence her mind And cause her to compassionate thy lot. Take courage!” So he spake and forth he went, Repairing to the palace of the Rose. Right eagerly he hastened to the Rose And threw himself before her on the ground. And said: “O lofty sun of loveliness, O moon, O heaven o’erflowing with delights, May God thy gracious beauty still increase, And give fulfilment to thy every wish! May he thy honor never bring to blight, And with full many a year thy life prolong! A stranger poor, no traitor, but true man, A suitor in the passion of his mind, Is come to thee as if he were thy slave, For he has fallen deep in love with thee; The breath of love which burns him to the heart For him life’s goblet sweet with poison taints. He is thy very slave in heart and soul, Devoted to thee through all pain and want; In thy disdain he finds his sustenance, And in the pain thou givest his delight. He mourns night long complaining to the world, How he is tortured by his love for thee, Helpless by day, enfeebled, and unnerved, He passes drunk with grief, through town and plain; The hand of love represses now his song, The bolt of sorrow now has laid him low. From song to song he speeds along in love, Weak as the new moon in the light of day, He loves thy pity and thy graciousness, Still freshly hurrying on the path of love. Oh, that thou wouldst, bright sun of loveliness, Show to him all the glories of thy grace! Since only smile of thine can make him rich, And cause the beggar-man to reign a king. Does the tall cedar droop from weariness, From shadowing the soil beneath it spread?