“To the Unattainable” translated by Laurence Hope
Oh, that my blood were water, thou athirst,
And thou and I in some far Desert land,
How would I shed it gladly, if but first
It touched thy lips, before it reached the sand.
Once, — Ah, the Gods were good to me, — I threw
Myself upon a poison snake, that crept
Where my Beloved — a lesser love we knew
Than this which now consumes me wholly — slept.
But thou; Alas, what can I do for thee?
By Fate, and thine own beauty, set above
The need of all or any aid from me,
Too high for service, as too far for love.
And today is also the twenty-third of November.