I know there are eyes of melancholy sheen
To which no passionate secrets e'er were given;
Shrines where no god or saint has ever been,
As deep and empty as the vault of Heaven.
But what care I if this be all pretense?
'T will serve a heart that seeks for truth no more,
All one thy folly or indifference,—
Hail, lovely mask, thy beauty I adore!
Amor Mysticus.
From the Spanish of Sor Marcela de Carpio.
Let them say to my Lover
That here I lie!
The thing of His pleasure,
His slave am I.
Say that I seek Him
Only for love,
And welcome are tortures
My passion to prove.
Love giving gifts
Is suspicious and cold;
I have all, my Belovèd,
When Thee I hold.
Hope and devotion
The good may gain;
I am but worthy
Of passion and pain.
So noble a Lord
None serves in vain,
For the pay of my love
Is my love's sweet pain.
I love Thee, to love Thee,—
No more I desire;
By faith is nourished
My love's strong fire.