My love for thee, O thou the World’s Desire,
Doth fill with anguish sweet my longing soul;
About my broken heart thy tresses roll,
And bind it whole again with bands of fire.
Last night I dreamed that thou wert by my side,
And gave unto my grief attentive ear.
I called to thee, and fancied thou didst hear—
O Phantom false, but loved, with me abide!
There is no thought of thee that is not dear;
Ay, be thou evil if thou wilt to me—
The pain thou givest is an ecstasy;
Be thou my dream, be thou in vision near.
What though the rose be rival to the sun,
Her cheek is not like thine, O gate of joy!
Rose of the World, whose perfumes never cloy!
Light of the World, whose day is never done!
When Wisdom sees thy face, her calmness flies;
The Cypress sees thee, and its rival knows.
The Morning Breeze o’er fair rose-gardens blows,
Breathes thy sweet perfume, and in envy dies.
Whene’er the wine of Joy doth reach my brain,
My talk is of my Love and of the Vine.
Ah! then it is, with eloquence divine,
The song of Israfil thrills through my pain.
The Bird of Pleasure upward soars and high—
Follow, my love, in that celestial flight!
Yea, I will take the sorrow and the night,
That Laughter may see all thy days go by.
‘They call thee “Moon of Earth,”’ I said to thee;
And straight thine answer: ‘’Tis no empty name’—
Yet, dear, this common glory is thy shame;
Would that thy light were shed alone for me.
Thou wouldst the turquoise bowl of heaven turn,
To pour its pleasures out like perfume sweet;
Ay, use the stars as anklets for thy feet,
While o’er thy brows the seven planets burn.
Thou hast no shame of thine unbounded greed;
A golden ring attends thy willing ear.
Alas! It whispers but of gold, I fear,
And thou must listen to its sordid creed.