O my love’s like a colorless green simile
That’s newly sprung from your lips.
O my love’s like the rhythmic prosody
That gently sways your hips.
As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in love am I.
And I will love thee still my Dear,
Tho’ all languages should die.
Tho’ all languages should die, my Dear,
And ev’ry speaker calm his tongue:
I will love thee still, my Dear,
Even tho’ the words have gone.
And fare thee well, my Love,
And fare thee well, a while!
And I will speak again, my Love,
Tho’ it be only grunts and sighs.
