That is not love what the lover feels,
For in this love the heart does not rejoice,
Thus subdued, from the lover’s heart the will
Shall name it Love by having not a choice.
Is not a lover he whom sighs in woe,
For that is woe, and not love, which sighs,
For lovers sigh in Love, and not inside their soul
Is there a woe, but only joy goes by.
That is not life, from the widow’s grief
The ultimate source that makes her sit and cry,
For though in life she sought her grief’s relief
Life cannot be there where the grief is nigh.
But it is death, alas! All that can be,
What the lovers fear, what their hearts foresee.