He seems to me, that one, equal to the gods,
The man fixed there, who sits opposite you
And hears close by your sweet voice
And delightful laugh, which once
Shook the soul in my breast.
For as I look on you,
My voice yields no sound,
Gasping, my silent tongue shivers,
A thin fire runs in under my skin,
In my eyes there is no sight,
My ears pound and throb,
A chill sweat runs over me,
Trembling seizes me completely,
Paler than the reeds am I,
And, weakened, I seem little short of dying.
But all must be endured....
Peter Saint-Andre > Writings > Ancient Fire