Would not men die for such a sylph like thee?
A form so perfect that doth Nature proud;
A heart so chaste, whose state is e’er in glee,
Diffident ne'er before a staring crowd;
A mind so nimble and focused, yet naïve
To base intentions as attentions feigned.
O dear my love, what save my life to give
Could prove mine pure, should I be not arraigned
For that same fraud would I from thee protect?
My life- a drifting bark in the wine-dark sea,
Till I thy beacon flaring hope detect-
Is thine, and how could I as such leave thee?
To e’er leave thee- my love, my life- on earth,
A paradise to me would bear no worth.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem