Thou Art So Sweet

THOU art so sweet thou wilt not pain the minstrel singing songs to thee,
But when he loves thee thou dost frown--in vain he tells his wrongs to thee.

Love's fire is such, ’twill not consume--’twill burn, and burn, and ever burn:
If in that sea of flame I fall to cool me thou wilt never turn.

Alas, how shall the minstrel bear thy lightning gleams that pierce his heart?
No pact or treaty wilt thou make--a monarch absolute thou art.

If thou dost meet with mountains high like wax thou meltest them away;
If cities fair lie on thy path, their pride in ruins thou dost lay.

In sooth, no compact wilt thou make with him who sings these strains to thee:
Sayat Nova no credit hath when he would tell his pains to thee.

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