August Graf von Platen (1796–1835)

OH, he whose pain means life, whose life means pain

May feel again what I have felt before;

Who has beheld his bliss above him soar

And, when he sought it, fly away again;

Who in a labyrinth has tried in vain,

When he has lost his way, to find a door,

Whom love has singled out for nothing more

Than with despondency his soul to bane;

Who begs each lightning for a deadly stroke,

Each stream to drown the heart that cannot heal

From all the cruel stabs by which it broke,

Who does begrudge the dead their beds like steel

Where they are safe from love’s beguiling yoke—

He knows me quite, and feels what I must feel.