As immature fruits she allures
As if, over the hill of my mind wind blows
And my blue-eyed armour incurs
Flightily tension, or hardly allows
Itself to be at the love's brim;
So I could not but be in extreme whim.
Happy love is but a happy short life.
In depth of truth, or sign of dependance
Twin the lovers both pain and grief
And happiness returns in a chance;
And happy lovers both do weep
When lovers in belief tune deep.
Let me be thus, or take me thus
More or less I could have been her.
'Tis her immature aim into the fuss
Foil'd her intention to call me 'Dear';
Though, in belief, fallen too short
Must be lover every sort kind.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem