I owe, I owe all to my stirring, blushing lady;
To her tacit eyes, to her lips that savour of thirst;
Her palm, whose sweat my hand lowered to wipe;
Her lean arms, that are captive of my lorn eyes;
Her sturdy and slender waist promising me a nest;
Her love borne thought nudging its way to my path.
I heave in my soul when she hides her warmth.
If at all I live, it is for her, by her and due to her.
She is not the cause of my birth but can be for my death.