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 Yea, love, I see; it is not love but fear. Nay, sweet, it is not fear but love, I know; Or wherefore should thy body's blossom blow So sweetly, or thine eyelids leave so clear Thy gracious eyes that never made a tear— Though for their love our tears like blood should flow, Though love and life and death should come and go, So dreadful, so desirable, so dear? Yea, sweet, I know; I saw in what swift wise Beneath the woman's and the water's kiss Thy moist limbs melted into Salmacis, And the large light turned tender in thine eyes, And all thy boy's breath softened into sighs; But Love being blind, how should he know of this?

Au Musée du Louvre, Mars 1863.