XVI
Josef Štýbr translation
It happened. My soul minus Thee No longer feels itself as whole; To think myself without Thee once Would be as to have lost my soul. Yes, Thou art woven in my soul Thou art her pride and her delight— Thou art my solace, my desire, My happiness—my pain and plight. From joyless days Thou heaven weav’st As does the bride her wedding dress; In me Thou wak’st, in me Thou dream’st; What I’m, what Thou, is hard to guess. It matters not what my fate be— For I know well its weaving hand. And should Thy hand destruction bring, On that, too, heaven might depend.