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Ardor of the senses, ardor of the hearts, ardor of the souls,
Vain words created by those who diminish love;
Sun, you do not distinguish among your flames
Those of evening, of dawn, or of the noon of days.
You walk blinded by your own light,
In the torrid azure, beneath the great vaulted skies,
Knowing nothing, except that your force is plenary
And that your fire labors at the sacred mysteries.
For to love is to act and to exalt oneself without truce;
O you, whose sweetness bathes my haughty heart,
What good is weighing the pure gold of our dream?
I love you wholly, with my whole being.
Emile Verhaeren
Translation generated by Poésies 123 with assistance from the deepseek-chat artificial-intelligence model.
Text published on Poésies 123: https://www.poesies123.com/en/poem-ardor-of-the-senses-ardor-of-the-hearts-emile-verhaeren/