YET why repine? ’Tis he who laughs that wins.
The careless, gay, unfeeling company
Of men who think not of emotion, see
Th’ accomplishment of their unholy sins
Bring from the many an applause that dins
The voice of one poor soul, who lives to be
Truer to nature’s homily than he
Who cares not how love’s happiness begins.
Then let me sing with gayety and smile;
Though hard it be to mask my agony
Of loneliness, when thou art otherwise
Engaged. Assist me, Eros, to beguile
This heart, that cares more for the company
Of those who would be neither great nor wise!
XXV
OH, for the longed-for moment that might bring
Thy soul in closer touch or tune with mine,
And, in the fulness of its love, entwine
Our hearts in one eternal praise; to sing
Love’s pæan unto God! An angel’s wing
Were better suited to thy form, to shine
In Heaven’s brilliancy, and make divine
That which thy soul upon this earth would fling.
Whatever change of heart may come to thee,
Thou fairest of earth’s flowers, my beloved,
Think not to find me absent from thy side,
In that blest hour, which I have prayed to see;
Nor shrink, from fear that I may be removed
From thy dear shrine, whatever may betide.
XXVI
OH heart, hast thou no liberty, to gain
That which thou seekest so persistently?
’Tis now full many a year, insistently,
That thou dost search for love’s maturer fane.
Art thou thine own to be refused again
By nature’s rude requital now to thee:
This poor return for love’s best gift? Ah me!
Why should she turn thy pleasure unto pain?
’Tis only then by loving me that thou,
Dear one, canst save me from eternal fire:
Unending grief from which I may not rise,
Save by the glad acceptance of a vow
From thee; to turn Hell’s flame to Heav’n’s desire,
That those who love shall win Love’s sacred prize.
XXVII
DEAREST of dearer things, that are to me
More dear each hour that my spirit grows
In its intensity of love, and flows
With warm desire; thy true love I would see,
Crowning that which I oft have wished to be
Th’ attainment of my life. He little knows,
Who hears of me from enemies and foes,
How true is my own soul’s sincerity.
For I had rather brave the fires of hell,
Than know that thou shouldst never come to me,
With love’s embraces in thy fair blue eyes,
And that on earth I ne’er should hear thee tell
My grateful spirit, how thou mightest be
That which alone hath power to quench my sighs.
XXVIII
FOR there is that in man which doth desire
Some time, in every heart, the play of love:
The emulation of his life above,
Before he came to earth, here to aspire
To something unattained, and feel the fire
Of untaught passion, his new being move
To sorrow, that it doth so ill behoove
The sense of love to suddenly inspire.
For who so harsh, that he denies th’ embrace
Of beauty’s arms about his melting form;
Or doth refuse the loved one’s proffered kiss,
When, half reclining, she would seem to chase
All care from off this earth, in one fair storm
Of loveliness, whose presence is true bliss?