Upon that day when all I know is lost,
I will thee love, and know it to be love.
Upon that day when fate's cold hand does shove
Mine eyes from yours – I then will know the cost
Of love – that warmth who's absence conjours frost
Upon my tortured breath, my every thought.
I'll know that love's affliction I have caught
On that cruel day when all I know is lost.
This thought my lady, does not ache my heart;
So full of you; for doubt it has no room.
You never, madam, will from my heart fall.
To death –I might add, from the very start–
I'd rather bear some grim, impending doom,
Than know that this was not love after all.