O prose-writer conquering the heart,Can poets by prose-writers be o'erthrown?
At times I rise as though I were not I,Un stirred by all thy deeds that pass me by.
Thou turnest round the axis of love's sphere,While love illumined turns not—fixed and clear.
Then lower thy proud wing in humility,Drop down thine eyes—nor strive for victory.
If thou dost love me, speak the word aloud;If thou dost hate me, speak without a shroud.
Speak truth, however bitter it may taste—In either case I shall endure with grace.
Dost thou deem it befits a soul so pureTo torture one who trusts thee and is sure?
Was it not enough that I remain perplexed,In understanding love by thee annexed?
Love is a sovereign, absolute command;Man is its slave, with neither strength nor hand.
Commune with fancy's image of the heart,Guard well thy pledges—do not tear apart.
For I am she who conquered conquerors,And every tyrant—what tyrannical powers!
When I scatter pearls upon the listening ear,When I compose, a poet's spell is here.
When I relate, a miracle unfolds;When I recount—a sorcerer's tale holds.
And now thou conquerest me—tell me, I pray,Can poets by prose-writers be swept away?
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