When every line is beautiful,
And love honestly expressed,
Only then may the poet rest
And forget the beauty of her naked breast.
But the sleep the poet earns
Is brief; the sleepless poet learns
Honesty will never be expressed
Which gives the lover of beauty rest,
For love looks, and does not hear,
Even should poetry flow directly into the beloved’s ear.
The poet writes for himself alone.
There is no expression known
That ends the need for beauty’s praise.
The poet must praise for the rest of his days.
Once, I told her, and she understood.
“Oh my God, you are beautiful!” It didn’t do any good.
