WITH kisses would I woo thee first and say,
“Come to my garden, thou fair violet flower.”
Sweet is th’ intoxication of thy power
That bringeth some new fragrance every day:
Nor these embraces would I gladly stay,
At my first thought and knowledge of the shower
Of the living evidences that empower
The loving to assume the lover’s way.
But, lest thine own too maidenly reserve
Shall not requite the gladness of my soul,
Blind to all else but that which may preserve
The extasy of love’s attainèd goal,
I must needs pause, alas! once more, and serve
Minerva’s colder law and pay its toll.
V
HOW shall I ever thank thee for the boon,
Thou wingèd child, that lifted thus my soul,
And quenched the thirst for love, that many a bowl
Of golden wine had failed, alas! too soon,
To satisfy, from eventide to noon?
For I, who lingered near some mossy knoll,
Received thy love-tipped arrow at its goal;
And bare the wound, rejoicing with a tune.
Then bind, fair one, with love thy wounded swain.
Give him thine eyes, but breathe thy soul as well
Into his welcome heart, that beats with pain,
Lest it should have an hapless tale to tell.
Ah! Spare me that, my love, and in thy train
Shall Heaven be wherever thou mayst dwell!
VI
IS it, in truth, a gift from Heaven’s hand
That brings thee hither, loved one, to prepare
My heart once more, for something that shall share
The worship which thy being would command?
Behold me, Venus! Measured in the band
Of votaries, at the shrine and in the air
Of myrtle boughs and honey-scented hair,
That make of Love a pleasing fairy-land!
Take me, mine own! But art thou yet mine own,
Though on this couch that holds thee I recline,
To melt in sadness at thy very frown,
And laugh if I but knew that thou wert mine?
Then temperance in thy love! My heart, refrain!
Let wisdom rule if victory should remain!
VII
WHAT wingèd boy hath caught again my heart,
To hold it now in beauty’s fair embrace,
Who, with enticing attitude, the place
Of love once more hath wounded with his dart?
Half fearing first, I begged him to depart;
Yet now, enslaved in love’s half-hidden maze,
How can I, loving thee, my voice upraise,
And leave behind the vision that thou art?
Come, then, sweetheart, and meet my own caresses;
Come, though I pay love’s price in future pain.
Greet me at eve with those delicious kisses,
That bear the realms of Heaven in their train.
Tell me of odors sweeter than thy blisses:
Then, only then, from love would I refrain!
VIII
SOMETHING did tell my soul, though not thy troth,
That I might find in love life’s pleasant morning,
Like lovely maid, some flowery grove adorning,
Just as in verse imagination doth.
The thought I treasured in me, nothing loth,
Yet never dreamed that I should find Love scorning
That which I gave; to spurn it without warning,
And crush the flower as lightly as a moth.
May I not yet with gratitude this pen
Now dedicate to love, thus born again,
Out of thy breast, and seemingly to stay?
Thou fair divinity, adored of men,
To death I must consign my banished pain,
And find in thee the fulness of to-day!