Canticum Petri Abaelardi, postquam avunculus et consanguinei amatae ejus venissent ad eum quando ingressus est ad Heloysam.

Philosophers were never meant to wed
Nor get, but faithful to their trust
To bring forth thought within the secret bed
Of skinless splendor with a fleshless lust—
Nor know the sacred hymns of bridal song
Of mortal minstrels—thus I’ve done Thee wrong.

The ancient scrolls unfold in sagely awe,
Where writ upon is every knowledge born
Upon his sacred peak where Plato saw
The sudden, breathless dawnings of the Forms—
A holy morning in the heathen night!
A flutter in the veil on Tabor’s light.

Oh, give me Stoic soul of teflon-make,
And I would with the Seven Sages sing—
But mine is now of stuff to burn and break
Like Icarus upon his waxen wings.
The flushing cheek, the thrilling blood too coarse—
Like Phaeton, hapless, on his deathless horse.

Raise me up, Sophia! Let me lay
My weary, burdened soul against thy breast,
And I’ll bear witness as thy consorts say
That in our mortal love is mortal death.
But loose, at last, the debt of fleshly weight
And I shall not another mistress take.