You know that burning that I felt
(Not in my heart, nor mind, but you know where),
Well, no worry, this world never
need care about this poet’s first affair.
It will not kill me. Just as I
Had resolved to die famous: burbling mess,
Blind, diseased, another Heine.
(Cheap fame, I know, but it’s fame nonetheless.)
But don’t bother, Love. I will not
Leave you. My heart burns more than dreams of fame.
And still I’ll die of love’s disease:
For love is love and burns are all the same.
From Text and Commentary (Mandala Publishing).
For my thoughts about writing this poem, follow this link.