Let me not undergo the pains of Thomas Wyatt, for
love
Even as much as I indite in the Shakespearean
Not of the Romeo and Juliet, but as of a dove
Gentle, kind and reliable - I orate in Cicerean.
Mine love for you - much too pure to be dented,
Much too holy and kind, that man understands not
For it comes not from he, but the One who created
All; and each man which his own but.
How mine heart feel, I think if you were a dream
Giving the taste of yours, thus pinion the strength
in me.
And then I know it were a dream
Let me never open mine eyes to mother-earth.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem