Is this which we speak of that famous love?
Is it the glorious crimson fury
I have heard, with mine ears, before talked of
at some times throughout the well-worn journey?
A feeling so strong, the people do say,
a satisfying kiss to one’s sweet lips.
No, say I, they can talk of what they may.
Love is a liquid dream which fools do sip.
I have never head, nor seen, nor touched love–
such a melodious peal of gold bells.
I know of no such shy white-feathered dove
who burns into souls the fire of Hell.
Yet, though this lily-white idea I do hate,
I wish to have died having loved—o fate.