Translated by David Young
I'd sing of Love in such a novel fashion
that from her cruel side I would draw by force
a thousand sighs a day， kindling again
in her cold mind a thousand high desires；
I'd see her lovely face transform quite often
her eyes grow wet and more compassionate，
like one who feels regret， when it's too late，
for causing someone's suffering by mistake；
And I'd see scarlet roses in the snows，
tossed by the breeze， discover ivory
that turns to marble those who see it near them；
All this I'd do because I do not mind
my discontentment in this one short life，
but glory rather in my later fame.