To what love do we owe,
With our lives in this place,
When the sky is white as snow,
Where I can't see your face?
To what do I know of thee,
When I do not understand,
When I am about to be,
What you should reprimand?
I want to know your name,
That beauty that stirs,
I know not of your fame,
Or of your fine furs,
But I do know of thy grace,
Which is soft as thy face.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem