Láttu nú strengi gígju gjalla,

geigvænu myrkri felst mín önd.

Svífa lát ástaróminn snjalla

að eyrum mér frá þinni hönd.

Búi hryggð í barmi sárum

blítt hana veki kvakið þitt.

Hvarminn lát döggvast huldum tárum,

höfuð svo þau ei brenni mitt.

                    My soul is dark - Oh! quickly string 
                        The harp I yet can brook to hear; 
                    And let thy gentle fingers fling 
                        Its melting murmurs o'er mine ear. 
                    If in this heart a hope be dear, 
                        That sound shall charm it forth again: 
                    If in these eyes there lurk a tear, 
                        'Twill flow, and cease to burn my brain.

                    But bid the strain be wild and deep, 
                        Nor let thy notes of joy be first: 
                    I tell thee, minstrel, I must weep, 
                        Or else this heavy heart will burst; 
                    For it hath been by sorrow nursed, 
                        And ached in sleepless silence, long; 
                    And now 'tis doomed to know the worst, 
                        And break at once - or yield to song.