Poem II
Love her how? Unto love or to be in love, same it is?
No, ‘tis not. What each doest to spirit thy didst thee ask.
I shall pour soul mine before thou and beseech compare
Thee both not. Pour my soul before thee, tell ye what spirit
Mine itself confesses. ‘Tis not the same for when thoust love,
Ye love and that is it. Doth ye call that love? It is yet not the love
Whenas you art into it, not the one you wish give to her.
Mother loves child owe, nurse when sick, love till life breathes
Thro' veins hers. Brother loves a sister, and bees flowers, and
They lea theirs. True is this love.
Love ‘tis when thee art into it too yet blood boils and harte beats
Fast then ebbs, and lost thro' thoust is. Wrathful and enraged but
Pleased thee art. Fly and sail through expanse endless doth ye
Then fere mine wit ye ‘tis the love thee wish to love her with.
Tanja
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