Alas! if I think of her, my throat becomes <br />dry, my hand falls back, my breasts harden and <br />hurt, and I shiver and cry as I walk. If I <br />see her, my heart stops and my hands tremble, <br />my feet freeze, a redness of flame rises to my <br />cheeks, my temples beat in agony. If I touch <br />her, I grow mad, my arms stiffen and my knees <br />give under me. I fall before her, and I go to <br />my bed like a woman who is going to die. I feel <br />I am wounded by every word she speaks. Her love <br />is a torture, and those who pass by hear my <br />lamentations . . . Alas! how can I call her <br />well-beloved?<br /><br />Pierre Louys<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/love-1953/
