Without consent, my heart accepted your religion, at whose temple it sings canticles of praise; I send these verses with much affection; I write for you these humble bouquets. The sight of your body has consumed me in fire, and your eyes doused me by their limpid pools; Fear not, if madness is apparent in these lines: all love's poetry is the province of fools. I yearn for worship, this is why I write -- perhaps words can mollify love's fire; These greetings are from the battlefield of love; forgive me if it seems too much, too dire. Your lips, your neck... your face like the moon, and eyes that bear the radiance of dawn! In the places where games of love are played, your body is a queen that fells this pawn. Through all the walks and pain of life, souls long for what they cannot feel; Then one day, in this world's unreality, I beheld in you the figure of the Real. My Beloved is the Message, full of Light; and your beauty, its bearer, noon-day bright. The stomach informs the hungry of his goal; and thirst gives understanding of the lake; Your grace, your figure, your lovely form -- are answer to the questions manhood makes.