Where is the heart untempered by despair, Whose strands, unlike his dark hair, never entwine? The world has wearied mine with cruelty and spite, For only union with my friend can set it right. I find contentment in a greeting or a glance, Yet cry at love’s injustice and its dire expanse. Though all admire the crescent of the feast, It bends not like my lover’s brow, nor shines at least. O morning breeze, pass gently by his side, And say that grief alone is now my guide. And i