On Astrild, Honing his Arrows- Georg Stiernhielm
January 25, 2012, 6:32 am
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: , ,

The grindstone can never cut; but it sharpens arrows and axes:
of similar nature is my beloved; she sharpens and hones
great love in my breast; herself she is duller than whetstone.
My proud heart she then weakens and wounds in its love,
while hers, sage and sane, is harder than flintstone.
She herself is ice and snow; to me she is hotter than fire.
Frigid is she by nature; but me she does hurry to love her.
All she occasions and does, by her is unfelt or unknown:
mild is she and gives away what she neither owns nor ever was hers.

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