Is this which we speak of that famous love?
Is it the glorious noted green sea
which, with mine ears, I have before heard of?
A gift, a soul to have, a piece of me.
The people say a force to touch, to daunt.
A satisfying kiss to one’s sweet lips.
No, say I, they talk like pawns of dreams they haunt.
Love is a liquid dream which fools do sip.
But I have never heard, nor seen this love–
such a melodious peal of gold bells.
I know of no such shy white-feathered dove
who burns in two souls such the fire of Hell.
Yet, though this lily-white ideal I hate,
I wish to have died having loved, o fate.