. . . from
her --
the
only beloved -- why is there no language which can express what
is far above all mere regard -- far above everything -- that we
can ever describe -- Oh, who can name you -- and not feel
that's however much he could speak about you -- that would
never attain -- to you -- only in music -- Alas, am I not
too proud when I believe that music is more at my command than
words -- You, you, my all, my happiness -- alas, no --
even in my music I cannot do so, although in this respect
thou, Nature, hast not stinted me with thy gifts. Yet there is
too little for you. Beat, though in silence, poor heart -- that
is all you can do, nothing more -- for you -- Always for you
-- only you -- eternally you -- only you
until I sink into the grave -- My refreshment -- my all. Oh, Creator,
watch over her -- bless her days -- rather let all calamities
fall upon me --
Only
you -- May you be strengthened, blessed and comforted --
In the wretched yet frequently happy existence of us mortals --
Even
if you had not fettered me again to life, yet you would have meant
everything to me --