I have loved thee centuries
before thy birth, ages waned
from melodies of love-sick songs.
I loved thee not because I loved
thee solely for the purpose of loving,
but for such pleasantness that strung
love songs in me.
For thine own self, the song plays true,
a rhythm for the tangent of thy smile,
I know not love so purest of thy song,
but stronger still the rhythm shines.
Love folly no more, all sweetness 'til
the end, no heartbeat thuds unless
so musically, much steadily, in time,
for thine own love prepares not with
the moment, but moments love
with rhythm of thy prime.