What is there better

What is there better for me,
what more to my advantage,
than to rip my soul from my body?
So wretched am I in my existence,
and so many stifling fears are there in my breast;
so despicable is my lot;
I care not for my future;
I have lost the hope
with which I used to comfort myself.
All places have I now rambled about,
and through each covert spot have I crawled along,
to seek my love with voice, eyes, ears,
that I might trace her out.
And still I find her nowhere,
nor have I yet determined whither to go,
nor where to seek her,
nor, in the meantime, do I find
any person to give me an answer,
of whom I might make inquiry.
No place, too, is there on earth
more solitary than are this sorry place.
And yet, if she still can be found,
never while I exist will I cease
before I am graced with her forgiveness.