Night, dim night, and it rains, my love, it rains,
( Art thou dreaming of me, I wonder )
The trees are sad, and the wind complains,
Outside the rolling of the thunder,
And the beat against the panes.
Heart, my heart, thou art mournful in the rain,
( Are thy redolent lips a-quiver? )
My soul seeks thine, doth it seek in vain?
My love goes surging like a river,
Shall its tide bear naught save pain?