You masks of the masquerade,
pass, you are not she,
for whom my being staggers drunkenly,
pass without me your parade.

You barques to Ophir or to Thule tossing,
pass, you do not carry in your keels
her to whose lips my heart its being seals,
pass without me your crossing.

You songs of festivals from belfries timing
tarry, if the one sung in your chiming
is she who shall be ever loved of me
and cradle me my Destiny.