| The Moon | |
| God has set forth some perplexing matters | |
| all year round to hinder man. | |
| An empty–handed lover does not freely own | |
| 4 | either night or day or anything else. |
| Useless are the tree–tops of many a grove, | |
| I am sick for one of bright and gentle form. | |
| A man of Ovid's nature (I'm her brother) | |
| 8 | will not venture to her land by day. |
| After suffering severe distress | |
| success is no nearer — night prevents him. | |
| My gain, I know, will not be great, | |
| 12 | nor my reward whilst it is a moonlit night. |
| I'm well used to waiting beneath fair, thick woods, | |
| my eyes have always been dull with fear. | |
| The bright moon's worse than the sun, | |
| 16 | it being so cold, and that was no small thing. |
| Those wounds of sorrowful tears, | |
| woe to the thief who's being observed. | |
| A wide moon like a dazzling maid, | |
| 20 | candle of the hard, cold weather. |
| Troublesome with every new moon | |
| is the bloom of the day's radiance. | |
| A parish of a saint's construction, | |
| 24 | water planet of all new growth. |
| Every fortnight her routine — | |
| her home beneath heaven is night — | |
| is to take her course from there | |
| 28 | (I'm deep in thought), growing ever larger |
| until she becomes two halves, | |
| the stars' sun on a bright night. | |
| She hurls the tide, fair radiance, | |
| 32 | she is the phantoms' sun. |
| For a thief was there ever anything worse | |
| (most stifling gift) than a fair moonlit night? | |
| From his bed the Jealous One, silent, | |
| 36 | with resolute intent, by the fairness of the moon above |
| sees me here, near to him, | |
| in my lair beneath the fine twigs. | |
| That florin is most helpful to the husband, | |
| 40 | towards her heavenly home she climbs. |
| On my journey she was far too round, | |
| spur–rowel of the icy wind. | |
| She's a hindrance to a restless lover, | |
| 44 | the nape of a loaf of frosts. |
| She thwarts summer's arrant thief, | |
| she was too bright to allow a girl to venture out. | |
| Her bed is a circle way up high, | |
| 48 | almighty God's portion of the fine weather above. |
| She perceives where I am, world's candle, | |
| a cover, it's from the sky she rises. | |
| Her compass is as wide as the earth, | |
| 52 | the refuge of the wild and civilized are all one colour. |
| Her form is that of a finely meshed sieve, | |
| her rim is familiar with lightning. | |
| She's a path–walker in heaven's sky, | |
| 56 | the shape of a lace, brass cauldron's brim. |
| Power of a measuring–lamp of a star–bright field, | |
| a sphere from the bright blue sky. | |
| A sunless day, a base coin came, | |
| 60 | it was annoying, driving me from my refuge. |
| A brilliant image before the intense, bright hour of morning's prime, | |
| better for me if she would darken a little. | |
| In order to send persistent love–envoys | |
| 64 | of goodly tidings to my splendid darling's home, |
| whilst it is night, bright, cosy, fair, | |
| may God the Father make it dark outside. | |
| It would be a fine rule for our Lord, | |
| 68 | by God, to grant us light by day, |
| and grant us the night (and that would be our secret) | |
| in darkness, her and I. | |