A Slovene wreath your poet has entwined,
Of fifteen sonnets is the chaplet bound,
And in it thrice the Master Theme must sound:
Thus are the other harmonies combined.

Now from his source like streams in order wind
The sonnets, and the head of each is found
By the last line of the last sonnet crowned;
This is a semblance of your poet's mind.

From one love all by thoughts arise, and lo!
Whene'er I sleep at night they cease to flow,
But stir when darkness flees before dawn's rays.

You are the Master Theme of my whole life,
Which will be heard when I have ceased my strife -
A record of my pain and of your praise.