Since, by the world's decree,
No child must ever
Be born of you and me,
My dearest lover;
We must from heart and mind
Banish this hunger,
And let these visions blind
Our eyes no longer.
But none from me can take
The right of giving
Birth to the songs I make
Out of our loving.
So, though they be not great,
Cherish them dearly:
We can nought else create,
Who love so rarely.