the cold sea gave no consolation.
Grasping at what love from you I kept,
the hardened deformed shape of my bastard nation
Swept over and changed that gracious form
whose beauties once you kisses-praised.
A flotsam to each winter's storm
the sea, in rage, like mine, did raise.
The shame of fools who toss their heirlooms
know not shame beside my crimes
which ripped me from thy lovely, fair womb
as Dietrich did our son in dark times.
Though in my rage I won this banish,
Lost have I not this love -- won't vanish.
