XXVI
OH heart, hast thou no liberty, to gain
That which thou seekest so persistently?
’Tis now full many a year, insistently,
That thou dost search for love’s maturer fane.
Art thou thine own to be refused again
By nature’s rude requital now to thee:
This poor return for love’s best gift? Ah me!
Why should she turn thy pleasure unto pain?
’Tis only then by loving me that thou,
Dear one, canst save me from eternal fire:
Unending grief from which I may not rise,
Save by the glad acceptance of a vow
From thee; to turn Hell’s flame to Heav’n’s desire,
That those who love shall win Love’s sacred prize.