English
Number 11
The heart of the bud is gripped by grief once more:
why has the violet's back bent low?
The morning breeze means to lift the veil from her face,
and that is why it holds the bud back from its breath.
For the meadow, the fresh line of new grass is a royal decree,
as if it has claimed the whole realm of joy for its own.
Did my eyes glimpse the narcissus in a dream,
that its eye has grown so moist from mine?
The rose's nature was kneaded from musk and wine,
so from these it took its scent and color both.
Its work fell into disarray because of my love's tresses,
and for this the violet has put on mourning.
The tulip consented to the blood in its cup,
for grief has seized its heart and holds it fast.
The bud tells all its secrets to the wind;
look at that simple heart, taking the wind for a confidant.