OH, I sighed, for I loved her, I loved her,
But her heart was as hard as the stone.
Oh, I sigh, for I wooed her, I wooed her,
And she only repaid me with scorn!
And I often in lone hours did languish
For my Idol to bend from her throne,
For her pity on me in my anguish –
How I wish she had never been born!
Oh, she’s mine, for I made her, I made her,
And she rose from rough-cast of stone;
Oh, she’s mine, for I shaped her, I shaped her,
And her features I blazoned with scorn;
She was all that I had for my pleasure,
And I ceased not until she was one;
She was all I could honestly treasure –
Now I wish she had never been born!
She is dead, for she toppled and tumbled,
And she lay at my feet, just a stone;
And the dust she let free when she crumbled
Took my sight as a sop to her scorn;
Thus is was, though I lost her, I lost her,
For her pride did she amply atone,
For she took my eyes lest I should see her –
And I wish she had never been born!
She was pure, she was good, she was noble,
And I care not who calls it a lie;
But I loved, and there came with love trouble,
For who could love her such as I?
When she fell then my love was shattered,
The sight from my eyes quick was torn;
I made her, she paid me; what mattered,
Except she had never been born?
29. 1. 1928