For a thousand years, or so it seems,

you have been the vision of my dreams.

But now we have met I ache within,

and I cannot believe such desire a sin.

 

Only yesterday for the very first time,

I dared to think I could make you mine.

You went to bathe in that swift, cold stream,

That moment brought to life my dream.

 

Can it be true? You did not Hide?

You showed your body—to me—with pride?

I am now a prisoner of your charms,

and long to hold you in my arms.

 

Desire becomes now, so severe

It may drive a wedge between us, dear.

Is it true you may be Queen,

before All Saints or Halloween?

 

Chivalrous men it is said, are prone,

To hopeless loves, and to die alone.

I have no wish their fate to share

To become a famous but tragic pair.

 

So now, tomorrow, before you are Queen,

Give me your love, fulfil our dreams.’