How do I write of love, unlike before?
Have bards of old then dripped and dried all pens
that none a phrase nor sequence left to roar,
my hearted themes then blind to any lens.

Should I then rhyme and pray my wit appear
to scheme a love no sonnet, dare have done,
for those who seek to read what love is here
and touch an essence tho'; anew had won.

But if my page imprints a loving new
have I deprived a future poet's scheme
that he be lost, as I am now with rue,
that works, tho' felt, another may beseem.

But love, is love, no other word can meet,
and if that love his own, none can defeat.