A man shall have sorrowWhen friends him fail.For he shall know thenFriends be untrueAnd a little ashesTheir words come to.But one unto himWill softly moveAnd softly woo himIn ways of love.His hand is underHer smooth round breast;So he who has sorrowShall have rest.
Where no rude wind might visit me.Because of sad austeritiesI would in that sweet bosom be.I would be ever in that heart(O soft I knock and soft entreat her!)Where only peace might be my part.Austerities were all the sweeterSo I were ever in that heart.
The night-dew liesUpon my lips and eyes.The odorous winds are weavingA music of sighs:Arise, arise,My dove, my beautiful one!I wait by the cedar tree,My sister, my love,White breast of the dove,My breast shall be your bed.The pale dew liesLike a veil on my head.My fair one, my fair dove,Arise, arise!
Are you not weary of ardent ways,Lure of the fallen seraphim?Tell no more of enchanted days.Your eyes have set man’s heart ablazeAnd you have had your will of him.Are you not weary of ardent ways?Above the flame the smoke of praiseGoes up from ocean rim to rim.Tell no more of enchanted days.Our broken cries and…
Of Love in ancient plenilune,Glory and stars beneath his feet — –A sage that is but kith and kinWith the comedian Capuchin?Believe me rather that am wiseIn disregard of the divine,A glory kindles in those eyesTrembles to starlight. Mine, O Mine!No more be tears in moon or mistFor thee, sweet sentimentalist.
Still are you beautiful — – but O,How is your beauty raimented!Through the clear mirror of your eyes,Through the soft sigh of kiss to kiss,Desolate winds assail with criesThe shadowy garden where love is.And soon shall love dissolved beWhen over us the wild winds blow — –But you, dear love, too dear to me,Alas! why…
Arrogant, in black armour, behind them stand,Disdaining the reins, with fluttering whips, the charioteers.They cry unto the night their battle-name:I moan in sleep when I hear afar their whirling laughter.They cleave the gloom of dreams, a blinding flame,Clanging, clanging upon the heart as upon an anvil.They come shaking in triumph their long, green hair:They come…
Where the gay winds do most desireTo run in companies.There, where the gay winds stay to wooThe young leaves as they pass,My love goes slowly, bending toHer shadow on the grass.And where the sky’s a pale blue cupOver the laughing land,My love goes lightly, holding upHer dress with dainty hand.
Calling to them, a voice they know,He drives his beasts above Cabra.The voice tells them home is warm.They moo and make brute music with their hoofs.He drives them with a flowering branch before him,Smoke pluming their foreheads.Boor, bond of the herd,Tonight stretch full by the fire!I bleed by the black streamFor my torn bough!
Happy Love is come to wooThee and woo thy girlish ways—The zone that doth become thee fair,The snood upon thy yellow hair,When thou hast heard his name uponThe bugles of the cherubimBegin thou softly to unzoneThy girlish bosom unto himAnd softly to undo the snoodThat is the sign of maidenhood.
