IN what uncertain guise doth passion strive
To work in men the mischief of their being;
Even as Satan doth pursue them, fleeing
In fear from their own shadows, while alive.
Yet, from the realm of passion we derive
Something that with true love is well agreeing;
That he who once hath seen is alway seeing,
Tragic, yet like a flower that doth revive.
And thou, my own, whose love doth quicken life
To fragrant sweetness hitherto unknown,
Take me, but half unworthy as I come,
And rule my dear heart’s dwelling as my wife.
By deeds the spirit of true love is shown,
Though passion still doth find its earthly home.
X
WITH how distressed a sentiment my heart
Doth think of thee, my heart alone can tell,
Nor easily interpret thoughts that dwell
Within this sorrowing spirit, lest we part,
To meet not as we have, with love’s sweet art
Designing pictures in some flowery dell
That held those garlands which from lovers fell;
For every time I think of thee I start.
’Tis long since thou didst come, to make my life
A heaven of fleeting rapture in my breast,
Bright as the silvery star, that shines above
The firmament of man’s uncertain strife.
Thou tookest from me all that I possest;
Then give me, give me in return thy love!
XI
NOW, should I chance to meet thee passing by,
That holy fear would overcome my soul,
Which poets speak of, as th’ attainèd goal
Of love’s ideal doth seem to greet the eye.
Still, would we ask our own desire why
We find love’s bark oft wrecked upon the shoal,
That lies beneath the quivering waves, that roll
In cold deception of the lovers’ tie.
The old familiar wound comes back to me,
My loved one; the neglect (though thou shouldst think
It scarce neglect) stings nightly my poor heart.
Each day is lost that brings no sight of thee.
Must I then once again this goblet drink,
Of love’s sweet poison, as we drift apart?
XII
IT is a strange and wondrous thing that brings
Love unrequited to the human heart.
To me it comes; from thee it would depart.
And all the while a stirring song it sings,
Bearing an undescribed refrain that clings,
In unremitting strength, like that sweet dart
Whose love-tipped messenger of life thou art.
It bears to me a memory that stings.
Must I then languish in remembrance of
Those treasured moments of unearthly joy,
That bore me to the realm of magic halls,
Where are reflected images of love?
I trow, thou hast no heart to thus destroy
My own heart’s happiness that from thee falls!
XIII
I KNOW not how to cast aside the power
That holds thy presence ever in my thought.
By night or day, thy coming once hath brought
Incessant longing for thee every hour.
Why can I not, in truth, then, overpower
This sense of something that is vainly sought,
And still content me with a friendship caught
From the occasional perfume of a flower?
Oh, lover! ask that question of thyself,
And answer it, in face of nature’s calling:
If in all reason thou couldst satisfy
Such craving in thy soul. For I myself
Hold difficult the effort of forestalling
That which I most reluctantly defy.