Oh your fingers with crooked nails,
tear this heart beneath the breast
(or jab a knife, slash the blood-rich vein)
such punishment befitting its crime
of loving, but in loving it had failed.
To love but to give it halved,
by the spoonfuls, measured, not wholly
or in wedlock with fear when boldness
was called for. What if,
in truth I made false claims, I loved?