I have been told “God reserves the highest pleasure for men—
who can conquer whatever they want, over and over again.”
When you loved me, you sweetly sympathized with my impatience,
saying, “in three months you’ll visit again, I promise!”
You were the only one I wanted to conquer.
Waiting increased my love—at the end of every empty day—
exquisite love!—which, when finally with you, I strove mightily to repay.
But now the only thing I conquer is the next poem—a pleasure, too.
Poems and plans for love along the midnight plains belonging still to you.