Open the door

Your pale breast grows colder and colder,
though I bathe it with tears, to no avail:
will it gain warmth if I rub it with this flower?

I've prayed and prayed, for nine days and nights,
but your azure breath still flees away:
will it return if I rub it with this flower?

High up in the sky, in the Milky Way,
where pairs of wild geese plough the frost,
ah! that desolate flower-bed, blue and red!

Open the door! I beg you, open the door!
Dearest lord, my love!