Classic Poem

Abelard was: God is
my love, I his
learned lass. But God is
not near.

Abelard my lover
was. I felt the
lusts that burnt us were
too sweet:

I feared they could not last.
I saw them pass
shedding brands to harass
my life.

They went: cruelly forc'd.
That he should know
doom of flesh, unique loss!
Dear me!

I could show a white face,
a pious dress;
but very flowers in my breast
all fresh.

Pluck them. God pluck them. I
plucked them madly.
But ever burgeon'd rose,
lily:

All the emblems
of my distress.
God help me to hide them