I sang for one love—just one love—alone,
Though many loved me—as was their right to do.
But they crushed my head beneath a stone
And drank my blood, because I loved only you.
They loved my music, but when it was known,
That you, Eurydice, were the one to whom I sang,
Though you sleep eternally beneath the world’s moan,
The death of my limbs in the night woods rang.
It was after I lost you, in that backward glance,
And all unkempt, singing nightly my musical moan,
That the jealous killed me. I had no chance.
Jealousy is love, Eurydice. But Eurydice, I love you alone.