Ode 254

WHAT a musician is that rascal Love!

How out of wood and some six silly strings

Contrives he the very stones and trees to move;

And when he sings,

You hear the lonely stars listening above.

'T were a sad world without a lover's voice;

Their lamentations are as sweet as birds;

And, when the little creatures do rejoice,

What pretty words

The dictionary yields up to their choice!

O love, continue to sustain the pride

Of this poor fly that dares to worship thee;

Mere hopeless love hath him so magnified,

That seemeth he

A Bird of Paradise all rainbow-dyed.

No one could blame a king who, when he goes

Abroad, finding forever falling from his sun

The shadow of some beggar, angry grows:

So do I run

Beside the rose, the shadow of the rose.

Unto the leech I took my bloody tears:

“What ails me, doctor?” unto him said I.

“T is love,” said he, “and it may last for years—

Yea, some men die;

But, borne with patience, it sometimes disappears.”

HAFIZ, take heart; Love is a grievous lord;

But this will always be the lover's creed,

Under the very shadow of Love's sword:

No gentle deed,

And no sweet action fails of its reward.