Shall I or shall I not console my heart

Shall I or shall I not console my heart
And win relief?
Or shall I sit in solitude apart
Nursing my grief?

O hear, while of my life now nearly done
Some sparks remain!
Soon I may be, who knows, O Cruel One,
Speechless with pain.

How can I to the fisher speak my thought?
Her snares are set,
My fish-like heart is by her lashes caught,
As in a net.

Look on my sorrowful mien, O Love, and tell
My hopelessness,
None of the manifold troubles that befell
Can I express.

Fair is the garden, Sauda, to thy view,
More fair appears
Her dwelling; let me all its ways bedew
With happy tears.